50  r 


POEMS. 


BY 


HENRY    TIMEOD. 


BOSTON: 
TICKNOR   AND    FIELDS 

M  DCCC  LX. 


Entered  accordiug  to  Act  of  Congress,  iu  the  year  1859,  by 

HENRY  TIMEOD, 
in  the  Oierk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


KIVEKSIDE,  CAMBRIDGE: 
1' HINTED  BY  H.  0.  HOUdHTON  AND  COMPANY. 


CONTENTS. 


To  Fairy 1 

POEMS. 

A  Vision  of  Poesy 3 

The  Past 34 

Praeceptor  Amat  36 

Dreams 41 

The  Problem - 43 

The  Arctic  Voyager 49 

A  Year's  Courtship 51 

Dramatic  Fragment 55 

Madeline 57 

The  Summer  Bower 62 

Second  Love 65 

A  Rhapsody  of  a  Southern  Winter  Mght 67 

Flower-Life 73 

Love's  Logic •* 76 

Youth  and  Manhood 78 

To  Whom  ? 81 

To  Thee 83 

Hymn,  sung  at  the  Consecration  of  Magnolia  Cemetery, 

Charleston,  (S.  C.)   85 

Stanzas.     A  Mother  gazes  upon  her  Daughter,  arrayed 
for  an  approaching  Bridal.    Written  in  illustration  of 

a  Tableau  Vivant 87 


IV  CONTENTS. 

Florabel 89 

Baby's  Age 91 

The  Stream  is  flowing  from  the  West 92 

Song.     "  When  I  bade  thee  adieu," 94 

Hark  to  the  shouting  Wind ! 96 

Vox  et  Preterea  Nihil 97 

Retirement 99 

The  Messenger  Rose 101 

Too  long,  O  Spirit  of  Storm  ! 103 

The  Lily  Confidante 105 

To  a  Captive  Owl 108 

On  pressing  some  Flowers 110 

Hymn,  sung  at  an  Anniversary  of  the  Asylum  of  Orphans 

at  Charleston 112 

A  Common  Thought 1 14 

SONNETS. 

"  Poet !  —  if  on  a  lasting  fame  be  bent" 117 

"  Most  men  know  love  but  as  a  part  of  life  ;" 118 

"  They  dub  thee  idler,  smiling  sneeringly ; " 119 

"  Are  these  wild  thoughts,  thus  fettered  in  my  rhymes,"  120 

"  What  gossamer  lures  thee  now  ?  " • 121 

"  Which  are  the  clouds,  and  which  the  mountains  ?  "  •  •  •  122 

"  If  I  have  graced  no  single  song  of  mine  " 123 

"  I  thank  you,  kind  and  best  beloved  friend," 124 

"  Some  truths  there  be  are  better  left  unsaid ;  " 125 

"  Were  I  the  Poet-Laureate  of  the  Fairies," 126 

"  I  scarcely  grieve,  O  Nature  !  at  the  lot " 127 

"  Fate  !  seek  me  out  some  lake,  far  off  and  lone," 128 

"  Grief  dies  like  joy  ;  the  tears  upon  my  cheek  " 129 

"  At  last  beloved  Nature  !    I  have  met " 13° 


DEDICATION. 


TO   FAIRY. 

Do   you     recall  —  I   know   you   do  — 
A   little   gift   once   made   to   you,  — 
A   simple  basket   filled   with  flowers, 
All  favorites   of  our   Southern  bowers  ? 

One   was   a   snowy   myrtle-bud, 
Another   blushed   as   if  with   blood, 
A   third   was   pink   of  softest   tinge, 
Then   came   a   disk   with   purple   fringe. 

You   took  them   with   a   happy   smile, 
And   nursed   them   for   a   little    while, 
And   once   or   twice   perhaps  you "  thought 
Of  the   fond   messages   they   brought. 


DEDICATION. 

And   yet   you   could   not   then    divine 
The   promise   in    that   gift  of  mine, — 
In   those   bright   blooms   and   odors   sweet, 
I   laid   this    volume   at   your   feet. 

At   yours,   my   child,    who   scarcely   know 
How   much   to   your   dear   self  I   owe  — 
Too   young   and   innocent   as   yet 
To   guess   in    what   consists    the    debt. 

Therefore   to   you   henceforth   belong 
These    Southern   asphodels   of  song,  — 
Less   my   creations   than   your   own, 
What   praise   they   win   is   yours   alone. 

For   here    no   fancy   finds    a   place 
But   is   an   effluence   of  your   grace ;  — 
And    when    my    songs   are   sweetest,    then 
A   Dream   like   you    hath   touched   the   pen. 


POEMS. 


A   VISION   OF  POESY. 
PART  I. 

I. 
IN   a   far   land   and   very  distant   age, 

Ere  sprites  and  fays  had  bade  farewell  to  earth, 
A   boy   was   born   of  humble   parentage ; 

The  stars  that  shone  upon  his  lonely  birth, 
Did  seem  to  promise  sovereignty  and  fame, — 
Yet  no  tradition  hath  preserved  his  name. 

n. 
'Tis   said   that   on    the   night   when   he   was    born, 

A  beauteous  shape  swept  slowly  through  the  room  ; 
Its   eyes   broke   on   the   infant   like   a   morn, 

And    his   cheek   brightened   like   a  rose  in   bloom ; 
But   as   it   passed   away   there   followed   after 
A   sigh   of  pain,   and   sounds   of  elvish   laughter. 


A   VISION   OF  POESY. 

III. 

And    so   his    parents   deemed   him   to   be   blest 
Beyond  the   lot   of  mortals ;    they   were    poor 

As   the   most   timid   bird   that   stored   its   nest 
With   the    stray   gleanings   at  their  cottage-door: 

Yet   they   contrived   to    rear   their   little   dove, 

And  he   repaid   them   with   the   tenderest   love. 

IV. 

The    boy   was    very   beautiful   in    sooth, 

And  as   he  waxed   in    years   grew    lovelier   still ; 

On    his   fair   brow    the   aureole   of  truth 

Beamed,  —  and    the  purest   maidens,  with  a   thrill, 

Looked   in   his  eyes,  and   from   their   heaven  of  blue 

Saw  thoughts   like  sinless  Angels  peering   through. 

v. 

The  parents   gazed   upon    their   boy   with    pride, 
And   all   his    little    ways   most    closely  scanned, 

Yet   there    was   something   in   those    ways   descried, 
Which   neither   one    could   wholly   understand, — 

A   self-withdrawn   and   independent  bliss, 

Beside   the  father's   love,   the   mother's   kiss. 

VI. 

For   oft,    when   he   believed   himself  alone, 

They  caught   brief  snatches  of  mysterious  rhymes, 


A   VISION   OF  POESY.  5 

Which   the   boy   murmured  in   an    undertone, 

Like   a   pleased   bee's   in  summer ;   and   at   times 

A   strange   far  look   would  come   into   his   eyes, 

As   if  he   saw   a   vision  in  the   skies. 

VII. 

And   he   upon   a   simple  leaf  would   pore 

As   if  its    very   texture    unto   him 
Had   some   deep   meaning ;    sometimes   by   the   door, 

From   noon    until  a   summer-day   grew    dim, 
He   lay  and  watched  the  clouds  ;   and  to  his  thought 
Night  with  her   stars   but   fitful   slumbers   brought. 

VIII. 

In   the   long   hours   of  twilight,   when   the   breeze 
Talked   in   low   tones   along   the    woodland   rills, 

Or   the    loud   North   its   stormy   minstrelsies 
Blent   with   wild   noises   from   the   distant   hills, 

The   boy,  —  his   rosy   hand  against   his   ear 

Curved     like    a    sea-shell,  —  hushed    as    some    rapt 
seer, 

IX. 

Followed   the   sounds,   and  ever   and   again, 

As   the   wind   came,  and   went,  in   storm   or   play, 

He    seemed  to   hearken   as   to   some   far   strain 
Of  mingled   voices   calling   him   away ; 


6  A   VISION   OF  POESY. 

And   they   who   watched   him,   held   their    breath   to 

trace 
The   still   and   fixed   attention   in   his   face. 

x. 

Once,   on   a   cold   and   loud-voiced    winter   night, 
The   three   were    seated   by   their   cottage-fire, — 

The   mother   watching   by    its   flickering   light 
The   wakeful   urchin,   and   the   dozing   sire ;  — 

There   was   a   brief,   quick   motion   like   a   bird's, 

And   the   boy's   thought  thus   rippled   into   words :  — 

XI. 

"  O   mother !    thou   hast   taught   me   many   things, 
But   none   I   think  more  beautiful   than   speech, — 

A   nobler   power   than    even   those   broad   wings 
I   used   to   pray   for,   when    I   longed   to   reach 

That   distant   peak   which   on   our   vale   looks   down, 

And   wears   the   star   of  evening   for   a   crown. 

XII. 

"  But,   mother,   while   our   human   words   are   rife 
To   us   with   meaning,   other   sounds   there   be 

Which   seem,   and   are   the   language   of  a  life, 
Around,   yet   unlike   ours ;  —  winds    talk ;    the    sea 

Murmurs   articulately,    and   the    sky 

Listens,    and   answers,   though   inaudibly. 


A   VISION   OF   POESY.  7 

XIII. 
"  By   stream    and    spring,   in    glades    and    woodlands 

lone, 

Beside   our   very  cot,   I've   gathered   flowers 
Inscribed   with    signs   and    characters    unknown ; 

But   the   frail   scrolls   still   baffle   all   my   powers : 
What   is   this    language,   and   where   is   the   key 
That   opes   its  weird   and   wondrous    mystery  ? 

XIV. 

"  The   forests   know   it,   and   the    mountains    know, 
And   it   is    written   in   the    sunset's   dyes ; 

A   revelation    to   the   world   below 
Is    daily   going   on   before   our   eyes ; 

And   but   for   sinful   thoughts   I   do   not   doubt 

That   we   could   spell   the   thrilling   secret  out. 

xv. 

"  O   mother !    somewhere    on   this   lovely  earth 
I   lived,  and   understood   that   mystic   tongue, 

But   for   some   reason,   to   my  second   birth 
Only   the   dullest   memories   have  clung, 

Like   that   fair   tree   that   ev'n    while   blossoming, 

Keeps   the   dead   berries   of  a   former  spring. 

XVI. 

"  Who  shall   put  life  in  these  ?  —  my  nightly  dreams 
Some   teacher   of  supernal   powers   foretell ; 


8  A   VISION   OF  POESY. 

A   fair   and   stately  shape   appears,   which   seems 

Bright  with   all   truth ;  —  and  once   in  a  dark  dell 
Within   the   forest,   unto   me   there   came 
A  voice  that  must  be  her's,  which  called  my  name." 

XVII. 

Puzzled   and   frightened,  wondering   more   and  more, 
The   mother   heard,    but   did   not   comprehend ;  — 

"  So   early   dallying   with   forbidden   lore ! 

Oh,  what   will    chance,  and   wherein  will   it    end  ? 

My  child !  my  child ! "  she  caught  him  to  her  breast, 

"  Oh,  let   me  kiss   these  wildering   thoughts  to   rest ! 

XVIII. 

"  They   cannot   come   from    God,   who   freely   gives 
All   that   we   need   to   have,   or   ought   to   know  ; 

Beware,   my   son !    some   evil   influence   strives 
To  grieve   thy  parents,  and  to  work  thee  woe;  — 

Alas !   the   vision   I   misunderstood  !  — 

It   could   not   be   an   angel   fair   and   good." 

XIX. 

And   then,   in   low   and   tremulous   tones,   she   told 
The    story   of  his   birth-night ;  —  the    boy's    eyes, 

As   the   wild   tale    went  on,    were   bright   and   bold, 
With   a   weird   look   that   did   not   seem    surprise : 

"  Perhaps,"   he   said,    "  this   lady   and   her   elves 

Will   one   day   come,   and   take   me   to   themselves." 


A    VISION   OF   POESY.  9 

XX. 

*'  And  would'st  thou   leave  us  ?  "  —  "  Dearest  mother, 

no ! 
Hush  !   I  will  check  these  thoughts  that  give   thee 

pain  ; 
Or,   if  they   flow,   as  they  perchance   must   flow, 

At   least   I   will   not   utter   them  again; 
Hark !   the   loud   Night   is   calling   to   the    Day ! 
We    should   be   dreaming !  —  Mother,   let   us  pray." 

xxi. 

Thenceforth,    whatever   impulse   stirred   below, 
In   the   deep   heart   beneath   that   childish   breast, 

Those   lips   were   sealed,  and   though  the   eye  would 

glow, 
Yet   the  brow   wore   an   air   of  perfect   rest ;  — 

Cheerful,   content,   with    calm   though    strong   control 

He   shut   the    temple-portals   of  his   soul. 

XXII. 

And    when   too   restlessly   the   mighty    throng 
Of  fancies   woke   within   his   teeming   mind, 

All  silently   they   formed   in    glorious    song, 
And   floated   off  unheard,   and   undivined, 

Perchance,  not  lost,  —  with   many  a  voiceless  prayer 

They    reached    the     sky,    and    found     some     record 
there. 


10  A    VISION    OF   POESY. 

XXIII. 

Softly  and  swiftly  sped  the  quiet  days ;  — 
The  thoughtful  boy  has  blossomed  into  youth, 

And   still   no   maiden   would   have   feared   his    gaze, 
And    still   his   brow   was   noble    with  the    truth: 

Yet   though   he   masks   the   pain   with  pious   art, 

There   burns   a   restless   fever   in   his   heart. 

XXIV. 

A  childish  dream  is  now  a  deathless  need 

Which  drives  him  to  far  hills  and  distant  wilds,  — 

The  solemn  faith  and  fervor  of  his  creed, 
Bold  as  a  martyr's,  simple  as  a  child's,  — 

The    eagle   knew   him   as   she   knew   the   blast, 

And   the   deer   did   not   flee  him  as   he   passed. 

XXV. 

But   gentle   even   in   his   wildest  mood, 

Always,  and  most  he  loved  the  bluest  weather,  — 
And  in  some  soft  and  sunny  solitude 

Couched  like  a  milder  sunshine  on  the  heather, 
He  communed  with  the  winds,  and  with  the  birds, 
As  if  they  might  have  answered  him  in  words. 

XXVI. 

Deep  buried  in   the   forest   was   a   nook, 
Remote   and   quiet   as   its   quiet   skies,  — 


A    VISION    OF   POESY.  11 

He   knew   it,    sought   it,  loved   it   as   a   book 

Full   of  his   own   sweet   thoughts   and   memories  ; 
Dark    oaks   and   fluted    chestnuts    gathering   round, 
Pillared   and   greenly   domed   a   sloping   mound, 

XXVII. 

Whereof —  white,   purple,   azure,    golden,   red, 

Confused   like   hues   of  sunset  —  the   wild  flowers 

Wove    a   rich   dais ;  —  through   crosslights    overhead 
Glanced     the     clear     sunshine,     fell     the     fruitful 
showers, 

And   here   the   shyest  bird  would   fold   her  wings, — 

Here   fled   the  fairest   and   the   gentlest   things. 

XXVIII. 

Thither,    one   night   of  mist   and   moonlight,   came 
The   youth,    with   nothing   deeper   in   his   thought 

Than   to   behold   beneath   the   silver   flame 

New   aspects   of  his    fair   and   favorite   spot ;  — 

A   single   ray   attained   the   ground,   and   shed 

Just   light   enough   to   guide   the   wanderer's   tread. 

XXIX. 

And  high  and  hushed,  arose  the  stately  trees, 
Yet  shut  within  themselves,  like  dungeons,  where 

Lay  fettered  all  the  secrets  of  the  breeze ;  — 
Silent,  but  not  as  slumbering,  all  things  there 

UNIVEUSiiY  Cf  C,-^.*  s^,^  ^. 


12  A   VISION   OF  POESY. 

Wore   to   the   youth's    aroused   imagination 
An    air   of  deep   and   solemn    expectation. 

XXX. 

"  Hath    Heaven,"   the   youth    exclaimed,    "  a   sweeter 

spot, 

Or   Earth   another   like   it  ?  —  yet   ev'n   here 
The   old    mystery   dwells !  —  and    though    I   read   it 

not, 

Here   most   I   hope   it   is,   or   seems  so   near ;  — 
So   many   hints   come   to   me,   but,    alas ! 
I   cannot   grasp   the   shadows   as   they   pass. 

XXXI. 

"  Here,   from   the   very   turf  beneath   me,   I 

Catch,    but    just    catch,    I    know    not   what   faint 
sound, 

And   darkly   guess   that   from   yon   silent   sky 
Float   starry   emanations   to   the   ground ;  — 

These   ears   are   deaf,   these   human    eyes   are   blind, 

I   want  a   purer   heart,   a   subtler   mind. 

XXXII. 

"  Sometimes  —  could   it   be   fancy  ?  —  I   have   felt 
The   presence   of  a   spirit   who   might   speak  — 

As   down   in   lowly   reverence    I   knelt 

Its    very   breath   has   kissed   my   burning   cheek, 


A  VISION   OF  POESY.  13 

But   I   in   vain  have   hushed   my   own   to   hear 
A    wing   or   whisper   stir   the   silent   air ! " 

XXXIII. 

Is   not   the   breeze   articulate?     Hark!    Oh,    hark! 

A   distant   murmur,   like   a   voice   of  floods, 
And   onward   sweeping   slowly   through   the   dark, 

Bursts  like  a  call  the  night-wind  from  the  woods  ! 
Low    bow    the   flowers,   the    trees   fling    loose    their 

dreams, 

And  through  the  waving  roof  a  fresher  moonlight 
streams. 

XXXIV. 

"  Mortal ! "  —  the  word  crept  slowly  round  the  place 
As  if  that  wind  had  breathed  it !  —  From  no  star 

Streams  that  soft  lustre  on  the  Dreamer's  face, — 
Again  a  hushing  calm !  —  while  faint  and  far 

The  breeze  goes  calling  onward  through  the  night,  — 

Dear  God !  what  vision  chains  that  wide-strained 
sight  ? 

XXXV. 

Over   the   breathless   flowers,   and   up   the   slope 
Glides  a  white  cloud  of  mist,  self-moved  and  slow, 

That,   pausing   at   the   hillock's    moonlit   cope, 
Swayed   like   a   flame   of  silver ;  —  from   below 


14  A   VISION   OF   POESY. 

The   awe-struck   youth  with   trembling   heart  beholds 
The    slow   unrolling   of  its   argent    folds. 

XXXVI. 

Yet,   his   young   pulse   beats    high,   and    hope   grows 
warm, 

As   flashing  through  that   cloud  of  shadowy  crape, 
With  sweep  of  robes,  and   then   a  gleaming  arm, — 

Slowly   developing,   at   last   took    shape 
A   face   and   form   unutterably   bright, 
That   cast   another   moonshine   on   the   night. 

XXXVII. 

But   for   the   glory   round   it,   it   would  seem 
Almost   a   mortal   maiden ;    and   the   boy, 

Unto    whom   love    was   yet   an   innocent   dream, 
Shivered  and    crimsoned  with  an  unknown  joy;  — 

As  to  the  young  Spring  bounds  the  passionate  South, 

He   could    have    clasped   and    kissed   her    mouth    to 
mouth. 

XXXVIII. 

Yet,     something     checked    that    was    and    was     not 
dread, 

Till   in   a   slow    sweet   voice    the   maiden    spake ; 
She   was   the    Fairy   of  his   dreams,    she    said, 

And   loved   him    simply   for   his  human   sake ; 


A    VISION   OF   POESY.  15 

And    that     in     Heaven,    wherefrom     she     took    her 

birth, 
They    called    her   Poesy,   the   Angel   of  the    earth. 

XXXIX. 

"  And   ever   since   that   immemorial   hour, 

When   the   glad   morning-stars    together   sung, 

My   task   hath   been   beneath   a   mightier   Power, 
To   keep   the   world   forever   fresh   and   young ; 

I   give  it   not   its   fruitage   and    its   green, 

But   clothe   it   with    a   glory   all   unseen. 

XL. 

"  I   sow   the   germ   which   buds   in   human   art, 
And,   with   my   sister   Science,    I   explore 

With   light   the   dark   recesses  of  the   heart, 

And  nerve  the   will,  and   teach   the  wish   to  soar; 

I   touch    with   grace   the   body's   meanest    clay, 

While   noble    souls   are   nobler   for   my   sway. 

XLI. 
"  Before  my  power   the  kings  of  earth  have  bowed ; 

I    am   the    voice    of  Freedom,   and   the   sword 
Leaps   from   its   scabbard   when   I   call   aloud ; 

Wherever   life   in   sacrifice   is    poured, 
Wherever   martyrs   die,   or   patriots   bleed, 
I   weave   the   chaplet,   and  award   the   meed. 


16  A   VISION   OF  POESY. 

XLII. 
"  Where     Passion     stoops,     or     strays,     is     cold,    or 

dead, 

I   lift   from   error,   or   to   action  thrill ; 
Or   if  it   rage   too   madly   in   its   bed, 

The  tempest  hushes  at  my  ( peace !  be  still ! ' 
I  know  how  far  its  tides  should  sink  or  swell, 
And  they  obey  my  sceptre,  and  my  spell. 

XLIII. 

"  All   lovely   things,  and   gentle,  —  the   sweet   laugh 
Of    children,     Girlhood's     kiss,    and     Friendship's 

clasp, 

The   boy   that   sporteth   with   the   old   man's   staff, 
The   baby,   and   the   breast   its   fingers   grasp,  — 
All   that    exalts   the   grounds   of  happiness, 
All   griefs   that   hallow,   and   all  joys   that   bless, 

XLIV. 
"  To   me   are    sacred ;    at   my   holy   shrine 

Love     breathes    its     latest     dreams,     its     earliest 

hints ; 
I   turn   life's   tasteless    waters   into   wine, 

And   flush   them  through   and  through  with  purple 

tints  ;  — 

Wherever   Earth   is   fair,   and   Heaven   looks   down, 
I  rear   my   altars,   and   I   wear   my   crown. 


A    VISION    OF    POESY.  17 

XLV. 
"  I   am   the   unseen   spirit   thou    hast   sought, 

I   woke   those    shadowy   questionings    that    vex 
Thy   young   mind,  lost   in   its    own  cloud  of  thought, 

And   rouse   the   soul   they   trouble   and    perplex  ; 
I   filled   thy   days  with    visions,   and   thy   nights 
Blessed    with    all   sweetest    sounds,    and   fairy    sights. 

XL  VI. 

"Not   here,   not  in   this   world,   may   I   disclose 
The   mysteries   in   which    this    life   is   hearsed, 

Some   doubts  there   be   that  with   some  earthly  woes, 
By   Death   alone   shall   wholly   be    dispersed; 

Yet   on   those   very   doubts   from   this    low   sod 

Thy   soul   shall   pass   beyond   the   stars   to    God. 

XLVII. 
"  And   so   to   knowledge,    climbing   grade   by   grade, 

Thou    shalt   attain  whatever   mortals    can, 
And    what   thou   may'st   discover,    by   my   aid 

Thou    shalt   translate    unto   thy   brother,    man ; 
And   men    shall   bless   the   power  that   flings    a   ray 
Into   their   night   from    thy   diviner   day. 

XL  VIII. 

"For   from   thy   lofty   height,   thy   words    shall   fall 
Upon   their   spirits,   like   bright   cataracts 
2 


18  A   VISION   OF  POESY. 

That   front   a   sunrise;    thou    shalt   hear   them   call 

Amid   their   endless    wastes   of  arid   facts, 
As    wearily   they   plod   their   way   along, 
Upon   the   rhythmic  zephyrs   of  thy   song. 

XLIX. 
"All   this   is   in   thy   reach,   but   much    depends 

Upon   thyself ;  —  thy   future   I   await ; 
I   give   the   genius,   point   the  proper   ends, 

But   the   true   bard   is   his   own   only    Fate: 
Into    thy   soul   my   soul    have    I  infused, 
But   even  my   loftiest   powers   may   be   abused. 

L. 

"The    Poet   owes   a   high,   and   holy   debt, 

Which,   if  he   feel,   he   craves   not   to   be    heard 

For   the   poor   boon    of  praise,   or   place,    nor   yet 
Does   the   mere  joy   of  song,   as    with   the    bird 

Of  many   voices,   prompt   the    choral   lay 

That   cheers  that  gentle   pilgrim   on   his    way. 

LI. 
"  Nor   may   he   always   sweep   the   passionate    lyre, 

Which   is   his    heart,   only   for   such   relief 
As   an    impatient   spirit   may   desire ;  — 

Lest   from   the   grave  which  hides    a   private  grief 
The    spells   of  song   call    up   some    pallid    wraith 
To  blast,   or   ban   a   mortal   hope   or   faith. 


A    VISION    OF    POESY.  19 

LIT. 

"  Yet   over  his   deep   soul   with   all   its   crowd 

Of  varying  hopes  and  fears,  still  must  he  brood,  — 

As    from   its   azure    height   a    tranquil   cloud 

Watches   its  own   bright  changes   in   the   flood ;  — 

Self-reading,   not   self-loving,  —  they   are   twain,  — 

And   sounding,  while  he  mourns,  the  depths  of  pain. 

LIII. 

"  Thus  shall  his  songs  attain  the  common  breast, 
Dyed  in  his  own  life's  blood,  the  sign  and  seal, 

Even  as  the  thorns  which  are  the  martyr's  crest, 
Which  shall  attest  his  office,  and  appeal 

Unto   the   universal   human   heart 

In   sanction   of  his    mission  and   his   art. 

LIV. 

"  Much   yet   remains    unsaid  ;  —  pure   he   must   be  ; 
Oh,   blessed   are   the   pure!   for  they   shall   hear 
Where   others   hear   not,   see,    where   others   see 
With    a    dazed    vision :     who    have    drawn    most 

near 

My   shrine,   have    ever   brought   a   spirit   cased 
And   mailed   in   a   body   clean   and   chaste. 

LV. 

"  The    Poet   to   the    whole   wide    world   belongs 
Even    as   the    teacher   is   the    child's ;  —  I  said 


20  A   VISION   OF   POESY. 

No    selfish   aim   should    ever   mar   his    songs, 

But   self  wears    many   guises ;    men    may   wed 
Self  in    another,   and   the   soul   may   be 
Self  to   its    centre,   all   unconsciously. 

LVI. 

"And   therefore   must  the   Poet   watch,   lest   he, 
In    the   long   struggle   of  his   life,    should    take 

Stains    which   he  might   not   notice ;    he    must   flee 
Falsehood,   however   winsome,    and   forsake 

All   for   the    Truth,    assured   that   Truth    alone 

Is    Beauty,   and   can   make   him    all    my   own. 

LVII. 
"  And    he    must   be    as   armed   warrior   strong, 

And   he    must   be   as   gentle    as    a   girl, 
And   he    must    front,   and   sometimes   suffer   wrong, 

With  brow  unbent,  and  lip  untaught  to  curl, 
For  wrath,  and  scorn,  and  pride,  however  just, 
Filleth  the  soul's  clear  eyes  with  earthly  dust." 


A    VISION    OF    POESY.  21 


PART  II. 

THE    story   came   to   me,  —  it   r.ecks    not   whence, — 
In   fragments ;   Oh !   if  I   could   tell   it   all, 
If  human    speech   indeed   could   tell   it   all, 
'Twere   not   a   whit   less   wondrous,   than   if  I 
Should   find,  untouched  in  leaf  and  stem,  and  bright 
As   when   it   bloomed   three   thousand   years   ago 
On   some   Idalian   slope,   a   perfect   rose. 
Alas !   a   leaf  or   two,   and   they   perchance 
Scarce   worth   the   hiving,   one   or   two   dead   leaves 
Are   the   sole   harvest   of  a   summer's   toil. 
There   was   a   moment,   ne'er   to   be   recalled, 
When   to   the    Poet's    hope  within  my   heart, 
They    wore   a   tint   like   life's,   but   in    my   hand, 
I   know   not   why,   they   withered.     I   have   heard 
Somewhere,  of  some   dead   Monarch,  from   the   tomb 
Where   he   had   slept   a   century   and   more, 
Brought   forth,   that  when    the   coffin   was   laid   bare, 
Albeit   the   body   in   its   mouldering   robes 
Was   fleshless,   yet   one   feature   still   remained 
Perfect,  or   perfect   seemed   at   least ;   the   eyes 
Gleamed   for   a   second   on   the   startled   crowd, 
And   then   went   out   in   ashes.     Even   thus 
The    story,   when   I  drew   it   from  the   grave 


22  A   VISION   OF  POESY. 

Where   it   had   lain   so   long,   did   seem,    I   thought, 
Not   wholly   lifeless,   but   even  while   I   gazed 
To    fix   its   features   on   my   heart,   and   called 
The   world   to   wonder   with   me,   lo !   it   proved 
I   looked  upon   a   cprpse! 

What   further   passed 

In   that   lone   forest   nook,   how    much   was   taught, 
How   much   was   only   hinted,   and   how   much 
Was   left   in   utter   darkness,   what   the   youth 
Promised,   if  promise   were   required,   to   do 
Or   strive   for,   what  the   gifts   he   bore   away,  — 
Or   added   powers   or   blessings,  —  how   at   last, 
The   vision   ended   and   he   sought   his   home, 
How    lived     there,    and     how    long,    and    when    he 


Into   the   busy   world   to   seek   his   fate, 

I   know   not,   and   if  any   ever   knew, 

The   tale    hath   perished   from   the   earth,   for   here 

The   slender   thread   on   which   my   song   is    strung 

Breaks   off,   and   many   after   years   of  life 

Are   lost  to  sight,   the  life   to   reappear 

Only   towards   its   close,  —  as   of  a   dream 

We   catch   the   end,   and   opening,    but  forget 

That  which  had  joined  them  in  the  dreaming  brain  ; 

Or   as   a   mountain   with   a   belt   of  mist 

That   shows   his   base,   and   far   above,    a   peak 

With   a   blue   plume    of  pines. 


A    VISION    OF    POESY.  23 

Some    scattered   links 

I   may   have   found,   mere   hints   in   sooth,   of  what 
He   did   and   suffered   under   heaven ;   but   I 
Choose   not   of  doubtful   shades   and   bits   of  light 
To   weave   a   specious   tale.     Enough   to    say, 
If  I   have   read   aright,   that   on   this    earth 
He   was   a   wanderer ;  —  once,   and   yet   again 
He    crossed   it,   coming   from   the   distant   morn 
Toward   the    sunset ;   and   in    every   land, 
And   unto   every   people   did   he    sing 
Of  all   he   thought,  and  all   he  dreamed   and   hoped ; 
But,   or   because   the   people   were   intent 
On   other   themes,   or   they   were   not   prepared 
To   dream    his    dreams,   or    think   the    thoughts    he 

thought, 

Or   that,   not   being   as   other   men,   he   touched 
No   chord   that   vibrated   from    heart   to  heart, 
The   people   would   not  hear,   or,   hearing,    turned 
And   went   their  way   unheedful.     Something,    too, 
Of  love   successless,   and   not   wisely   placed, 
I   gleaned;   and   from  the  wreck  of  those    sad    years 
Three   brief,   but   pregnant    scenes   remain :    in    one, 
He   stands,   a   crowd   about   him,   in   a   street 
Of  some   great   populous   town,   and   to   the    crowd 
He   speaks,   but   seems   to    see    it   not ;   his   eyes 
Seek   only   the   far  distance,   where   the   street 
A   golden    sunset   closes,   or   they    turn 


24  A   VISION   OP  POESY. 

Inward,    as    searching   thought,   nor   does   he    mark 

The    sneers    of  some,   the    Kstlessness    of  most, 

Nor   ev'n   the   few    who    seem   to  weigh   his   speech. 

And    next   a   softer   scene  —  the   time    is   morn  — 

Rises,  —  a   cottage   in   a   wood,   and   near, 

A   troop    of  maidens    dancing   fairily, 

Who,    on   a   sudden,   and   as    if  they    spied 

Some   monstrous    creature    unakin   to   men, 

Break   and   dispart,    and   as   they   fly,   they   shriek 

"  Away !    the  wizard  !    see,  he  comes,   he  comes  ! " 

And   the   next   moment,   with   the   reverent   step 

Of  courtesy   too   gentle   to   reproach, 

Even    the   groundless   fears    which   do   him    wrong, 

The    weary   Wanderer  passes   sadly   by. 

And   yet,  once   more   the    picture    changes ;  —  he 

Paces   a   bare   black   beach   alone ;    in   front 

A   wintry   sea,   o'er  which   a   storm   of  rain, 

Like   the   dark    shadow    of  some  world- wide    wing, 

Goes    sweeping,  —  yet   he    heeds   it   not,    but  looks 

A    spirit   with   the   spirits   of  the    winds, 

Wild   revellers,   but    his    sole    companions    now, 

Communing,   as   a   friend   communes    with   friends. 


A    VISION    OF    POESY.  25 


PART  III. 

I. 

IT   is   not   winter   yet,   but   that   sweet   time 

In   autumn  when   the  first   cool  days   are  passed ; 

A   week   ago,    the   leaves  were   hoar   with   rime, 
And   some   have  dropped  before   the  North- Wind's 
blast ; 

But   the   mild  hours   are   back,   and   at   mid-noon, 

The   day   hath   all   the   genial   warmth  of  June. 

ii. 

Betwixt  the  forest    stems,    a   thick   blue   air 
Shuts    the   long    vistas    of  those    deep    arcades ; 

Here,   there    are   glints   of  purple   sky,   and   there, 
A   dim   pink  sunshine  lights  the  breezeless  glades ; 

These,    we   must   leave   for   one   familiar   nook ;  — 

Come,   but   let   no   cold   worldling   enter !  —  look ! 

in. 

What   slender   form  lies  stretched   along   the  mound? 

Can   it   be   his,   the   Wanderer's,    with   that   brow 
Gray   in   its    prime,    those    eyes  that   wander   round 

Listlessly,   with   a  jaded   glance   that   now 
Seems   to   see   nothing   where   it   rests,   and    then 
Pores   on   each   trivial   object   in   its   ken  ? 


26  A   VISION    OP   POESY. 

IV. 

See   how   a   gentle   maid's   wan   fingers   clasp 

The  last   fond   love-notes   of  some   faithless    hand ; 

Thus   with   a  transient  interest,   his  weak   grasp 
Gathers    the   leaves   around,    which    dropped,    half 
scanned, 

He  gathers  yet  once  more  ;  —  heart-touching  freaks  !  — 

Is   the   old   dream   upon   him  ?   hush !   he   speaks ! 

v. 
"  Once     more,     once     more,     after     long     pain     and 

toil, 

And   yet   not   long,   if  I   should   count   by   years, 
I  breathe  my   native   air,   and   tread   the   soil 
I   trod   in   childhood ;    if  I   shed   no   tears, 
No   happy   tears,   'tis   that   their   fount   is   dry, 
And  joy   that   cannot   weep   must   sigh,   must   sigh. 

VI. 

"  These  leaves,   my   boyish   books  in  days   of  yore, 
When,  as  the   weeks   sped    by,  I   seemed  to  stand 

Ever   upon   the   brink   of  some   wild   lore,  — 

These   leaves   shall   make   my   bed,  and  —  for   the 
hand 

Of  God   is   on   me,   chilling   brain   and   breath,  — 

I    shall   not   ask   a   softer   couch   in    death. 


A    VISION     OF    POESY.  27 

VII. 

"  Here  was  it  that  I  saw,  or  dreamed  I  saw  — 
I  know  not  which  —  that  shape  of  love  and  light ; 

Spirit   of  Song !   have   I   not  owned  thy   law  ?  — 
Have  I   not   taught,  or   striven  to  teach   the  right, 

And   kept   my   heart   as    clean,   my   life   as   sweet, 

As   mortals   may,   when   mortals   mortals   meet? 

VIII. 

"  Thou  know'st  how  I  went  forth,  my  youthful  breast 
On  fire  with  thee,  amid  the  paths  of  men  ;  — 

Once  in  my  wanderings,  my  lone  footsteps  pressed 
A  mountain  forest ;  —  in  a  sombre  glen, 

Down  which  its   thunderous  boom    a   cataract   flung, 

A   little   bird,   unheeded,  built   and   sung. 

IX. 

"  So   fell   my   voice   amid   the   whirl   and    rush 

Of  human   passions;   if  unto   my   art 
Sorrow   hath   sometimes  owed   a   gentler   gush, 

I   know    it   not;   if  any   Poet-heart 
Hath   kindled   at   my   songs   its   light   divine, 
I   know   it   not ;   no   ray    came    back   to   mine ! 

x. 

"  Alone   in    crowds,   once   more   I   sought   to   make 
Of  senseless    things   my  friends ;   the   clouds    that 
burn 


28  A   VISION   OF   POESY. 

Above   the   sunset,    and   the   flowers   that   shake 

Their  odors   in   the    wind,  —  these  would   not  turn 
Their   faces  from   me ;   far  from    cities,    I 
Forgot   the   scornful    world  that   passed    me    by. 

XI. 

"Yet    even   the    world's   cold    slights   I    might    have 

borne, 

Nor   fled,  though   sorrowing;    but  I  shrunk  at   last 
When  one  sweet  face,  too  sweet,  I  thought,  for  scorn, 

Looked   scornfully   upon   me ;   then   I   passed 
From    all    that    youth     had    dreamed     or    manhood 

planned, 
Into   the   self  that   none   would   understand. 

XII. 

"  She   was  —  I   never   wronged   her    womanhood 
By   crowning  it    with   praises   not   her   own  — 

She    was   all   earth's,  and   earth's   too   in   that   mood, 
When    she   brings   forth   her   fairest ;   I   atone 

Now,   in   this   fading   brow    and   failing   frame, 

That   such  a   soul   such   soul   as   mine    could    tame. 

XIII. 

"  Clay   to   its   kindred   clay  !  —  I   loved   in   sooth 

Too   deeply   and   too   purely  to   be   blest; 
With  something   more   of  lust   and   less   of  truth, 


A    VISION    OF    POESY.  29 

She    would   have   sunk   all  blushes   on  ray   breast, 
And  —  but   I   must   not   blame   her  —  in   my    ear 
Death    whispers !    and   the   end,    thank    God !   draws 
near  !  " 

XIV. 

Hist !  on  the  perfect  silence  of  the  place 

Comes,  and  dies  off  a  sound  like  far-off  rain 

With  voices  mingled ;  on  the  Poet's  face 

A  shadow,  where  no  shadow  should  have  lain, 

Falls    the    next    moment :   nothing   meets    his   sight, 

Yet,   something   moves  betwixt   him    and   the   light. 

xv. 

And   a  voice    murmurs,  "  Wonder  not,  but   hear ! 

ME,   to   behold   again,   thou    need'st   not   seek ; 
Yet   by    the   dim-felt   influence    on   the    air, 

And   by   the   mystic   shadow    on    thy   cheek, 
Know,   though    thou    may'st   not   touch    with   fleshly 

hands, 
The   genius   of  thy   life   beside    thee   stands ! 

XVI. 

"  Unto   no   fault,    O  weary-hearted  one ! 

Unto   no   fault   of  man's    thou    ow'st   thy   fate ; 
All   human   hearts    that   beat   this    earth   upon, 

All   human    thoughts    and   human    passions    wait 


cO  A   VISION   OF  POESY. 

Upon   the   genuine   bard,   to   him   belong, 

And    help   in   their   own   way   the    Poet's   song. 

XVII. 

"  How   blame   the    world  ?   for   the    world   hast   thoti 
wrought  ? 

Or,   wast   thou   but   as   one   who   aims    to   fling 
The   weight   of  some    unutterable    thought 

Down   like   a   burden  ?  —  what   from   questioning 
Too    subtly    thy   own    spirit,    and   to  speech 
But   half  subduing   themes   beyond   the    reach 

XVIII. 

"  Of  mortal  reason,  what  from  living  much 

In  that  dark  world  of  shadows,  where  the  soul 

Wanders  bewildered,  striving  still  to  clutch, 
Yet  never  clutching  once,  a  shadowy  goal, 

Which  always  flies,  and  while  it  flies,  seems  near, — 

Thy   songs   were   riddles   hard   to   mortal   ear. 

XIX. 

"  This   was   the   hidden    selfishness    that  marred 
Thy   teachings   ever;   this    the   false   key-note 

That   on  such  souls  as  might  have  loved  thee  jarred 
Like   an   unearthly   language;   thou   did'st   float 

On   a   strange    water  ;    those   who   stood   on  land 

Gazed,  but  they  could  not  leave  their  beaten  strand. 


A    VISION    OF   POESY.  31 

XX. 

"  Your   elements    were    different,   and   apart, 

— The  world's  and  thine ; — and  even  in  those  intense 

And   watchful   breedings   o'er   thy   inmost   heart, 
It   was   thy   own   peculiar   difference 

That   thou  did'st  seek,  —  nor  did'st  thou  care  to  find 

Aught   that   would   bring   thee   nearer   to   thy   kind. 

XXI. 

"Not   thus   the    Poet   who   in   blood   and   brain 
Would   represent   his   race   and    speak   for  all, 

Weaves   the   bright   woof  of  that   impassioned   strain 
Which    drapes,   as   if  for   some   high   festival 

Of  pure   delights,  —  whence   few   of  human   birth 

May   rightly   be   shut   out,  —  the  common   earth. 

XXII. 

"  As   the   same   law   that   moulds   a  planet   rounds 
A   drop   of  dew,  so   the   great   Poet   spheres 

Worlds   in   himself;    no    selfish   limit  bounds 
A   sympathy   that   folds   all   characters, 

All   ranks,    all   passions,    and   all   life   almost 

In   its    wide    circle.      Like    some    noble   host, 

XXIII. 

"  He   spreads   the   riches   of  his   soul,   and   bids 
Partake    who    will ;  —  Age   has   its   saws    of  truth, 


32  A   VISION   OF   POESY. 

And  love   is   for   the   maiden's   drooping   lids, 

And   words   of  passion   for   the    earnest   youth ; 
Wisdom   for   all ;     and   when   it   seeks   relief, 
Tears,   and   their   solace   for   the   heart   of  grief. 

XXIV. 

"  Nor   less    on   him   than   thee,   the   mysteries 
Within   him,    and    about   him    ever    weigh,  — 

The   meanings    in   the   stars,    and   in   the    breeze, 
The   fairy    wonders   of  the    common    day, 

Truths   that   the   merest  point   removes   from  reach, 

And   thoughts  that   pause  upon  the  brink  of  speech  ; 

XXV. 

"  But   on   the    surface    of  his    song,    these   lie 
As    shadows,    not   as    darkness ;    and   alway 

Even    though   it   breathe   the    secrets   of  the    sky, 
There   is   a   human    purpose   in   the   lay ; 

As    some   tall   fir   that   whispers   to   the    stars 

Shields   at   its   base   a   cotter's  lattice-bars. 

XXVI. 

"  Even  such  my  Poet !  —  for  thou    still  art  mine  !  — 
Thou   might'st   have   been,  and    now    have   calmly 
died, 

A  Priest,   and   not   a    victim   at   the    shrine ; 
Alas !   yet  was   it   all   thy   fault  ?     I   chide, 


A   VISION   OF  POESY.  66 

Perchance,   myself  within   thee,   and   the   fate- 
To   which   thy   power   was   solely   consecrate. 

XXVII. 

"  Thy   life    hath   not   been   wholly   without   use, 
Albeit   that   use   is   partly   hidden   now ; 

In   thy    unmingled   scorn    of  any   truce 

With   this   world's   specious   falsehoods,   often   thou 

Hast    uttered,    through    some    all   unworldly    song, 

Truths  that  for  man  might  else  have  slumbered  long. 

XXVIII. 

"  And   these   not   always    vainly    on   the    crowd 
Have  fallen ;    some    are    cherished  now,  and    some 

In  mystic   phrases    wrapped   as   in    a    shroud, 
Wait   the   diviner,    who    as   yet   is    dumb 

Upon   the   breast   of   God  —  the   gate    of  birth 

Closed   on   a   dreamless   ignorance   of  earth. 

XXIX. 

"  And  therefore,   though   thy  name   shall   pass  away, 
Even   as   a   cloud  that  hath  wept   all   its   showers, 

Yet   as    that   cloud    shall   live    again   one   day 
In    the    glad   grass,    and    in    the    happy  flowers, 

So  in  thy  thoughts,  though  clothed  in  sweeter  rhymes, 

Thy  life    shall   bear   its   flowers   in   future   times." 


34  THE  PAST. 


THE    PAST. 

TO-DAY'S    most   trivial   act   may   hold   the    seed 
Of  future   fruitfulness,    or   future  dearth;  — 

Oh,   cherish   always   every   word   and   deed ! 
The    simplest   record   of  thyself  hath   worth. 

If  thou    hast   ever   slighted   one   old   thought, 
Beware   lest    Grief  enforce    the    truth  at   last ; 

The   time  must    come  wherein  thou  shalt  be  taught, 
The    value   and  the   beauty   of  the    Past. 

Not   merely   as   a   warner   and   a   guide, 

"  A   voice   behind   thee,"    sounding   to    the   strife ; 

But   something   never   to   be   put   aside, 
A   part   and   parcel   of  thy   present   life. 

Not   as   a   distant   and   a   darkened   sky, 

Through  which  the  stars  peep,  and  the  moonbeams 
glow  ; 

But   a   surrounding   atmosphere,    whereby 

We  live  and  breathe,  sustained  in   pain    and    woe. 


THE    PAST.  35 

A   Fairy-land,   where  joy   and   sorrow   kiss  — 
Each   still   to   each   corrective  and   relief — 

Where   dim   delights   are   brightened   into   bliss, 
And  nothing   wholly   perishes   but    Grief. 

Ah,   me  !  —  not   dies  —  no   more   than    spirit   dies  ; 

But  in  a  change  like  death  is  clothed  with  wings, — 
A  serious    angel,  with   entranced   eyes, 

Looking   to   far-off  and   celestial   things. 


36  PRECEPTOR   AMAT. 


PRECEPTOR    AMAT. 

IT  is  time  (it  was  time  long  ago)  I  should  sever 
This  chain  —  why  I  wear  it  I  know  not  —  forever ! 
Yet  I  cling  to  the  bond,  ev'n  while  sick  of  the 

mask 
I   must    wear,   as    of    one   whom    his    commonplace 

task 
And    proof-armor   of    dullness    have    steeled   to   her 

charms  ! 
Ah !   how  lovely  she   looked   as   she   flung   from  her 

arms, 

In    heaps   to  this  table,   (now  starred  with   the  stains 
Of  her   booty   yet   wet   with    those   yesterday  rains,) 
These   roses   and    lilies,    and  —  what  ?   let   me  see ! 
Then   was     off    in    a   moment,    but     turned    with     a 

glee, 

That   lit   her   sweet   face   as    with   moonlight,  to  say, 
As    'twas   almost   too   late   for   a  lesson   to-day, 
She  meant   to   usurp,    for   this    morning   at   least, 
My   office   of  Tutor ;    and    'stead   of  a   feast 
Of  such   mouthfuls   as  poluphloisboio   thalasses, 
With   which   I   fed  her,  I    should    study  the    grasses, 


PRECEPTOR   AMAT.  37 

(Love-grasses   she   called   them,)    the   buds,    and   the 

flowers, 

Of  which  I  know  nothing ;  and  if  "  with  my  powers," 
I   did   not   learn   all   she   could    teach   in    that   time, 
And  thank  her,  perhaps,  in   a  sweet  English  rhyme, 
If  I  did   not  do  this,  —  and  she  flung  back  her  hair, 
And   shook    her  bright  head  with   a   menacing  air  — 
She'd   be  —  oh  !    she'd   be  —  a   real    Saracen    Omar 
To   a   certain   much-valued   edition   of  Homer! 
But  these   flowers !    I    believe   I   could   number   as 

soon 

The   shadowy   thoughts   of  a   last  summer's   noon, 
Or   recall   with   their   phases,    each   one    after   one, 
The   clouds   that    came   down    to   the   death   of    the 

Sun, 

Cirrus,  Stratus,  or  Nimbus,  some    evening  last  year, 
As    unravel   the   web    of  one   genus !     Why,    there, 
As    they   lie   by    my    desk    in   that   glistering   heap, 
All   tangled   together   like   dreams   in   the   sleep 
Of  a  bliss-fevered  heart,  I  might  turn  them  and  turn 
Till   night,   in   a   puzzle   of  pleasure,   and   learn 
Not   a   fact,   not   a   secret   I   prize   half  so    much, 
As,  how   rough     is   this    leaf  when   I   think   of    her 

touch  ! 
There's   one    now,   blown   yonder!    what   can   be   its 

name? 
A   topaz    wine-colored !    the    wine   in   a   flame ! 


38  PRECEPTOR  AMAT. 

And  another  that's  hued  like  the  pulp  of  a  melon, 
But  sprinkled  all  o'er  as  with  seed-pearls  of  Ceylon ! 
And  a  third !  its  white  petals  just  clouded  with  pink ! 
And  a  fourth,  that  blue  star!  and  then  this  too;  — 

I   think 

If  one   brought   me    this    moment   an   amethyst  cup, 
From  which,  through    a   liquor  of  amber,  looked  up, 
"With   a   glow   as   of  eyes   in   their   elfin-like   lustre, 
Stones    culled   from   all   lands  in    a   sunshiny  cluster, 
From  the  ruby  that   burns   in   the  sands  of  Mysore 
To   the   beryl   of  Daunia,  with   gems   from   the  core 
Of  the   mountains   of  Persia    (I   talk   like   a   boy 
In  the   flush  of  some  new,  and  yet  half-tasted  joy ; ) 
But   I   think   if  that   cup   and   its  jewels   together 
Were  placed  by  the  side  of  this  child  of  the  weather, 
(This   one  which   she   touched  with   her   mouth,  and 

let   slip 

From   her   fingers    by   chance,   as    her   exquisite   lip, 
With   a   music   befitting   the   language   divine, 
Gave   the   roll   of  the    Greek's   multitudinous   line) 
I   should   take  —  not    the    gems  —  but    enough  —  let 

me   shut 

In   the   blossom   that   woke   it,   my   folly,   and   put 
Both   away  in  my  bosom,  —  there,  in   a  heart-niche, 
One  shall  outlive  the  other,  —  is't  hard  to  tell  which? 
In   the   name    of  all   starry   and   beautiful    things, 
What   is   it?    the    cross   in   the   centre,   these   rings, 


PRECEPTOR   AMAT.  39 

And   the   petals   that   shoot   in   an   intricate   maze, 
From   the   disk  which  is  lilac  (or  purple?)  like  rays 
In   a   blue   Aureole! 

And   so    now   will    she    wot, 

When  I  sit  by  her   side  with  my  brows   in   a  knot, 
And   praise    her   so   calmly,    or   chide   her   perhaps, 
If  her   words   falter   once   in    their   musical  lapse, 
As   I've   done,   I  confess,  just   to   gaze   at   a   flush 
In   the  white   of  her  throat,  or   to    watch   the  quick 

rush 
Of  the    tear    she    sheds   smiling,   as,    drooping   her 

curls 
O'er    that    book   I   keep     shrined   like   a    casket   of 

pearls, 

She   reads   on   in   a  voice   of  such   tremulous   sweet- 
ness, 
That    (in    spite   of    some    faults)    I    am    forced,   in 

discreetness, 

To  silence,  lest   mine  growing  hoarse,  should   betray 
What   I   must   not   reveal,  —  will   she   guess   now,    I 

say, 
How,   for   all  his   grave   looks,  the   stern,  passionless 

Tutor, 

With  more   than  the   love  of  her  youthfullest  suitor, 
Is   hiding   somewhere   in   the    shroud   of  his  vest, 
By   a   heart   that   is   beating   wild  wings  in  its  nest, 


40  PRECEPTOR  AMAT. 

This   flower,  thrown  aside  in  the  sport  of  a  minute, 
And    which    he    holds    as    dear    as    though    folded 

within   it, 
Lay   the    germ   of    the   bliss    that    he    dreams   of! 

Ah,   me  ! 

It   is   hard   to   love   thus,   yet   to   seem   and   to   be 
A  thing  for  indifference,  faint  praise,  or  cold  blame, 
When   you   long   (by  the   right  of  deep   passion,  the 

claim 

On   the   loved   of  the   loving,  at   least   to   be  heard) 
To   take    the   white    hand,   and    with   glance,   touch, 

and   word, 
Burn   your   way   to   the   heart !      That   her   step   on 

the   stair ! 
Be   still  thou   fond   flutterer ! 

How   little   I  care 
For  your  favorites,  see  !  they  are  all  of  them,  look  ! 

On   the   spot   where   they   fell,  and but   here   is 

your   book  ! 


DREAMS.  41 


DREAMS. 

WHO   first   said   "false   as    dreams"?     Not  one  who 
saw 

Into   the    wild   and  wondrous    world    they    sway ; 
No   thinker  who   hath    read   their   mystic   law ; 

No   Poet   who   hath    weaved   them   in   his   lay. 

Else   had   he  known  that  through  the  human  breast 
Cross   and   recross   a   thousand   fleeting   gleams, 

That,    passed   unnoticed   in    the    day's    unrest, 

Come   out  at  night,  like  stars,  in  shining  dreams  ; 

That   minds   too   busy   or   too   dull   to   mark 
The   dim    suggestions    of  the    noisier   hours, 

By    dreams   in   the    deep    silence   of  the   dark, 
Are   roused  at  midnight  with  their  folded  powers. 

Like    that   old   fount   beneath    Dodona's   oaks, 
That,    dry   and   voiceless   in   the    garish    noon, 

When   the   calm   night   arose    with   modest   looks, 
Caught   with   full   wave   the  sparkle  of  the  moon. 


42  DREAMS. 

If,    now    and  then,  a   ghastly   shape    glide    in, 
Or   burst   the   gate  of  Sleep    with   iron   keys, 

It   is    the    ghost   of  some    forgotten    sin 
We   failed   to   exorcise   on   bended   knees. 

And   that   sweet   face    which   only  yesternight 

Came   to   thy  solace,    Dreamer,    (did'st   thou   read 

The   blessing   in   its   eyes    of  tearful   light?) 
Was   but  the  spirit   of  some   gentle   deed. 

Come    in   what    shape   they    may,    our    dreams     in 

sooth, 
Their   gods,   their    fays,   their    demons,   and    their 

elves, 

Are  allegories   with   deep   hearts   of  truth 
That   tell   us   solemn   secrets   of  ourselves. 


THE    PROBLEM.  43 


THE    PROBLEM. 

NOT   to   win  thy  favor,   maiden,   not   to   steal   away 

thy    heart, 
Have   I  ever   sought   thy  presence,   ever   stooped   to 

any  art ; 
Thou   wast  but  a  Vildering  problem,  which  I  aimed 

to   solve,   and   then 
Make   it   matter   for   my  note-book,  or   a   picture  for 

my   pen ;  — 

So,   I   daily   conned   thee   over,  thinking   it  no   dan- 
gerous  task, 
Peeping   underneath   thy   lashes,   peering   underneath 

thy   mask,  — 
For   thou   wear'st  one,  —  no  denial !  —  there  is  much 

within   thine    eyes ; 
But   those    stars   have   other  secrets   than  are  patent 

in   their   skies. 
And   I    read   thee,   read    thee    closely,    every  grace 

and   every   sin, 
Looked   behind  the   outward  seeming  to   the   strange 

wild   world   within, 


44  THE   PROBLEM. 

Where   thy   future    self  is   forming,  where   I   saw  — 

no   matter   what !  — 
There    was   something    less    than    angel,   there    was 

many   an    earthly    spot. 
Yet   so   beautiful    thy    errors    that   I    had    no   heart 

for   blame, 
And   thy  virtues  made  thee  dearer  than    my  dearest 

hopes   of  fame, 
All  so    blended,   that   in   wishing   one   peculiar   trait 

removed, 
We   indeed  might  make  thee  better,  but   less   lovely 

and   less   loved. 
All   my  mind   was   in   the    study,  —  so   two   thrilling 

fortnights   passed,  — 
All    my  mind   was    in    the    study  —  till    my    heart 

was   touched  at   last. 
Well !  and  then  the  book  was  finished ;  the  absorbing 

task   was   done ! 
I   awoke    as    one    who    had    been    dreaming    in    a 

noonday    sun  ; 
With   a   fever   on   my  forehead,  and   a   throbbing   in 

my   brain  ; 
In   my   soul   delirious    wishes,  in    my  heart  a  lasting 

pain; 
Yet  so  hopeless,  yet  so  cureless,  —  as  in  every  great 

despair,  — 
I   was   very   calm   and   silent,   and   I   never   stooped 

to   prayer, 


THE    PROBLEM.  45 

Like  a  sick  man   unattended,  reckless  of  the  coming 

death, 
Only   for    he    knows    it    certain,   and    he    feels    no 

sister's   breath. 
All   the   while   as   by   an   ATE:,   with   no  pity  in  her 

face, 
Yet    with   eyes  of  witching    beauty,   and   with   form 

of  matchless    grace, 
I   was    haunted    by    thy    presence  —  oh !    for    weary 

nights   and   days, 
I   was    haunted    by    thy    spirit,    I   was    troubled   by 

thy    gaze. 
And   the    question    which   to  answer   I   had  taxed  a 

subtle    brain, 
What   thou   art,  and  what   thou  wilt   be,   came  again 

and    yet  again, 
With   its  opposite  deductions,  it  recurred  a  thousand 

times, 
Like    a    coward's    apprehensions,  like    a    madman's 

favorite   rhymes. 
But  to-night  my  thoughts  flow  calmer — in  thy  room 

I   think    I    stand, 
See     a    fair    white    page    before    thee,    and    a   pen 

within   thy   hand ; 
And   thy    fingers    sweep    the    paper,   and   a   light    is 

in    thine    eyes, 
Whilst   I    read  thy  secret  fancies,   whilst  I  hear  thy 

secret   sighs. 


46  THE    PROBLEM. 

What  they  are  I  will  not  whisper  —  those  are  lovely, 

these   are   deep  — 
But     one    name     is     left    unwritten  —  that    is    only 

breathed   in   sleep. 
Is   it   wonder   that   my   passion   bursts   at   once  from 

out   its  nest  ? 
I   have   bent   my  knee   before   thee,  and  my  love   is 

all   confessed  ; 
Though   I   knew   that    name   unwritten   was   another 

name   than  mine, 
Though  I   felt   those  sighs  half  murmured  —  what   I 

could   but   half  divine. 
Aye !    I   hear    thy   haughty   answer  !      Aye !    I    see 

thy   proud   lip    curl! 
"  What  presumption,  and  what  folly!"  —  why,  I  only 

love    a   girl 
With    some    very   winning  graces,    with    some   very 

noble    traits, 
But   no   better  than   a   thousand   who   have   bent    to 

humbler  fates. 
That   I   ask   not;    I   have,  maiden,  just   as   haught  a 

soul   as   thine  ; 
If   thou    think'st   thy   place    above    me,    thou    shalt 

never   stoop    to  mine. 
Yet   as   long   as    blood   runs    redly,   yet   as   long    as 

mental    worth, 
Is    a    nobler   gift    than    fortune,   is    a    holier     thing 

than   birth, 


THE    PROBLEM.  47 

I   will   claim    the    right   to   utter,    to   the   high   and 

to   the   low, 
That   I    love   them,   or   I   hate   them,    that   I   am   a 

friend  or   foe. 
Nor   shall  any  slight  unman   me,  —  I  have  yet  some 

little    strength, 
Yet  my  songs  shall   sound   as   sweetly,  yet   a   power 

be   mine   at   length ! 
Then,   oh,   then !  —  but    moans    are   idle  —  hear    me, 

pitying   saints   above  ! 
With   a   chaplet   on  my   forehead,   I   will  justify  my 

love  ; 
And   perhaps   when   thou   art    leaning   on   some   less 

devoted    breast, 
Thou    shalt    murmur,     "  He   was    worthier   than   my 

blinded  spirit   guessed." 

Turning  to  the  stars  that  yonder  roll  through  tran- 
quil depths  of  space,  — 

There,  oh,  God !  ev'n  there  I  see  thee,  and  I  meet 
that  earnest  face ! 

Siren !  hence  !  I  seldom  pray,  but  let  me  pass  this 
night  in  prayer,  — 

God  !  thou  know'st  my  heart  is  earthly  !  God !  my 
stormy  heart  is  bare ! 

But  I  need  thy  consolation,  —  there  is  that  within 
my  soul 


48  THE   PROBLEM. 

Which  should  wake  thy  tender  mercy,  which  requires 

thy    strong    control ; 
In    this    world    where    I    must   wander   without    any 

hand   in   mine, 
When   too   bold,   or    when   too   feeble,    Father!    wilt 

thou   lend   me    thine ! 
Touch    my    songs  with  holier   feeling,   touch    my  lips 

with    sacred   fire, 
Give    me    strength    to   calm   the   throbbings   of    this 

passionate   desire ! 
I  demand  no  earthly  blessings,  I  demand  no  worldly 

joys  — 
I   would   leave   these   tainted   pleasures   unto   women 

and   to   boys ; 
Only   in   thy   strong   protection,  only  shielded  by  thy 

love, 
Let   me   give   the   world   a   memory,  let   me  lift  my 

soul   above  — 
And    when    shadows    close    around    me,    and    when 

death   is   on   my  brow, 
O !    forgive    me    if    I   whisper    that    dear    name   I 

whisper   now. 


THE    ARCTIC     VOYAGER.  49 


THE  ARCTIC   VOYAGER. 

SHALL    I   desist,  twice   baffled?     Once   by   land, 
And   once  by  sea,  I   fought   and  strove  with   storms, 
All   shades   of  danger,   tides   and   weary   calms, 
Head-currents,    cold   and   famine,   savage   beasts, 
And   men   more   savage ;   all   the   while   my   face 
Looked     northward     toward     the     pole ;     if    mortal 

strength 

Could   have   sustained   me,   I   had   never   turned 
Back  till   I   saw   the   star   which   never   sets 
Freeze   in   the   Arctic   zenith.     That   I   failed 
To    solve   the   mysteries   of  the   ice-bound   world, 
Was   not   because    I   faltered   in   the    quest. 
Witness   those   pathless   forests   which  conceal 
The   bones   of  perished   comrades,   that   long   march, 
Blood-tracked   o'er    flint  and    snow,   and   one    dread 

night, 

By   Athabasca,    when   a   cherished   life 
Flowed,   to    give   life   to   others.     This,   and   worse, 
I   suffered,  —  let   it   pass  —  it   has   not   tamed 
My   spirit  nor   the   faith   which   was   my   strength. 


50  THE    ARCTIC     VOYAGER. 

Despite   of  waning   years,   despite   the    world 

"Which  doubts,  the   few  who   dare,  I  purpose  now  — 

A   purpose   long   and   thoughtfully   revolved, 

Through   all   its   grounds   of  reasonable    hope  — 

To    seek   beyond   the  ice   which   guards   the   Pole, 

A   sea   of  open   water;   for   I   hold, 

Not   without   proofs,   that   such   a   sea   exists, 

And  may  be  reached,  though  since  this  earth  was  made, 

No   keel   hath   ploughed   it,   and   to   mortal   ear, 

No   wind   hath   told  its    secrets  .  .  .  With   this   tide, 

I   sail ;   if  all   be   well,   this    very   moon 

Shall   see   my   ship   beyond  the   southern    Cape 

Of  Greenland,   and   far   up   the   bay  through  which, 

With   diamond    spire    and   gorgeous    pinnacle, 

The   fleets    of  Winter   pass   to   warmer   seas. 

Whether,   my   hardy   shipmates !    we    shall   reach 

Our   bourne,   and   come  with   tales   of  wonder   back, 

Or   whether   we    shall   lose   the   precious   time, 

Locked   in  thick   ice,  or   whether   some   strange   fate 

Shall   end    us    all,    I   know   not ;   but   I   know 

A   lofty   hope,   if  earnestly   pursued, 

Is    its    own    crown,   and   never   in   this    life 

Is  labor   fruitless.     What   must   be,    must   be ; 

I  shall   not   count    the   chances  —  sure   that   all 

A   prudent   foresight   asks,    we    shall   not    want, 

And   all   that   bold   and    patient    hearts    can    do, 

Ye   will   not   leave   undone.     The   rest   is    God's ! 


51 


A  YEAR'S   COURTSHIP. 

I   SAW   her,    Harry,   first,   in   March ;  — 
You   know   the   street   that  leadeth   down 

By   the   old   bridge's    crumbling   arch  ?  — 
Just   where  it  leaves   the  dusty    town, 

* 
A   lonely   house   stands   grim   and   dark  — 

You've   seen   it?  —  then   I  need   not   say 
How   quaint   the  place   is  —  did   you   mark 
An   ivied   window  ?   well,   one   day, 

I,   chasing   some   forgotten   dream, 

And   in   a   poet's   idlest   mood, 
Caught,   as   I   passed,   a   white   hand's   gleam, 

A   shutter   opened  ;  —  there   she    stood 

Training   the    ivy   to   its   prop. 

Two   blue   eyes   and   a  brow  of  snow 
Flashed   down    upon   me  —  did   I   stop?  — 

She   says   I   did  —  I   do   not  know. 


52 


But   all   that   day   did   something   glow 

Just    where    the   heart  beats ;   frail  and   slight, 

A   germ   had   slipped   its   shell,   and   now 
Was   pushing   softly   for   the   light. 

And   April   saw   me   at   her  feet, 

Dear   month   of  sunshine   and   of  rain ! 

My   very   fears   were    sometimes  sweet, 
And  hope   was   often   touched    with   pain. 

For   she   was   frank,   and   she   was   coy,  — 

A   wilful   April   in   her   ways ; 
And   in  a   dream   of  doubtful  joy 

I   passed   some   truly   April  days. 

May   came,   and   on   that   arch,    sweet   mouth, 
The   smile    was   graver   in   its   play, 

And,   softening   with  the    softening    South, 
My   April   melted  into   May. 

She   loved   me,   yet   my   heart   would  doubt, 
And   ere   I   spoke,   the   month  was   June,  — 

One   warm    still   night   we   wandered   out 
To   watch   a   slowly   setting   moon. 

Something   which   I   saw   not  —  my   eyes 
Were   not   on   heaven  —  a   star   perchance, 


A  YEAR'S  COURTSHIP.  53 

Or  some    bright   drapery   of  the   skies, 
Had   caught   her   earnest,   upward   glance. 

And   as   she   paused — Hal!   we   have   played 

Upon   the    very  spot  —  a   fir 
Just  touched  me   with   its   dreamy   shade, 

But   the   full   moonlight  fell   on   her. 

And   as   she   paused,  —  I   know   not   why,  — 
I   longed   to   speak,   yet   could   not  speak ; 

The  bashful   are   the   boldest, — I 

I   stooped   and   gently   kissed   her   cheek. 

A   murmur    (else   some   fragrant   air 
Stirred   softly)    and   the   faintest   start ! 

O    Hal !   we   were  the   happiest   pair ! 
O    Hal  !    I   clasped   her   heart   to   heart ! 

And   kissed   away   some   tears   that  gushed ! 

But   how   she   trembled,   timid   dove ! 
When   my   soul   broke   its   silence,   flushed 

With   a   whole   burning   June   of  love. 

Since   then   a   happy   year   hath   sped 

Through  months  that  seemed  all  June  and  May, 

And   soon    a   March   sun,   overhead, 
Will   usher   in   the   crowning   day. 


54  A  YEAR'S  COURTSHIP. 

Twelve   blessed  moons   that   seemed   to   glow 
All   summer,   Hal !  —  my  peerless   Kate  ! 

She   is   the   dearest  —  "  Angel "  ?  —  no  ! 
Thank  God !  —  but  you   shall   see   her,  —  wait. 

So,   all   is   told !   I   count   on   thee 
To   see   the  priest,   Hal!     Pass   the   wine! 

Here's   to   my   darling   wife   to   be ! 

And  here's  to  —  when  thou  find'st  her  —  thine  ! 


DRAMATIC    FRAGMENT.  55 


DRAMATIC   FRAGMENT. 

LET   the  boy  have   his   will !    I   tell   thee,   brother, 
We   treat   these   little   ones   too   much   like   flowers, 
Training   them,   in   blind   selfishness,   to   deck 
Sticks   of  our   poor   setting,    when   they   might, 
If  left   to   clamber   where   themselves   incline, 
Find   nobler   props   to   cling   to,   fitter   place, 
And   sweeter   air   to  bloom   in.     It   is   wrong, — 
Thou   striv'st   to   sow   with   feelings   all   thine    own, 
With   thoughts   and    hopes,   anxieties   and   aims, 
Born   of  thine   own   peculiar   self,   and   fed 
Upon  a   certain   round   of  circumstance, 
A   soul   as   different   and   distinct    from   thine, 
As   love  of  goodness   is   from   love   of  glory, 
Or   noble  poesy   from   noble   prose. 
I   could   forgive   thee,   if  thou   wast   of  them 
Who   do   their   fated   parts   in    this  world's    business, 
Scarce   knowing   how   or   why,  —  for  common   minds 
See  not  the  difference  'twixt  themselves  and  others,  — 
But    thou,  thou   with    the   visions   which   thy    youth 
did   cherish, 


56  DRAMATIC    FRAGMENT. 

Substantialized   upon   thy   regal   brow, 

Should'st   boast   a   deeper   insight.     We   are   born, 

It   is   my   faith,   in   miniature    completeness, 

And   like    each   other   only   in   our   weakness. 

Even   with   our   mother's  milk   upon   our   lips, 

Our   smiles   have  different   meanings,  and   our  hands 

Press    with   degrees   of  softness   to   her  bosom. 

It   is   not   change,  —  whatever   in   the   heart 

That   wears   its   semblance,   we,   in   looking   back, 

With   gratulation   or   regret,  perceive,  — 

It   is   not   change   we  undergo,   but   only 

Growth   or  development.     Yes !    what   is    childhood, 

But   after   all   a    sort   of  golden   daylight, 

A   beautiful   and  blessed   wealth   of  sunshine, 

Wherein   the   powers   and   passions  of  the   soul, 

Sleep   starlike   but   existent,   till  the   night 

Of  gathering   years  shall   call   the  slumberers   forth, 

And   they   rise   up   in   glory  ?     Early   grief, 

A   shadow   like   the   darkness   of  eclipse, 

Hath   sometimes   waked   them   sooner. 


MADELINE.  57 


MADELINE. 

O   LADY  !   if,   until   this   hour, 

I've   gazed   in    those    bewildering   eyes, 
Yet   never   owned   their   touching   power, 

But   when   thou   could'st   not  hear   my   sighs ; 
It   has   not   been   that   love   has    slept 

One   single   moment   in   my   soul, 
Or   that   on   lip   or   look   I   kept 

A    stern    and  stoical   control ; 
But   that   I   saw,   but    that   I   felt, 

In    every   tone   and   glance   of  thine, 
Whate'er   they   spoke,   where'er   they   dwelt, 

How   small,   how   poor    a   part   was    mine ; 
And   that   I   deeply,    dearly   knew, 

That  hidden,  hopeless   love    confessed, 
The   fatal   words    would  lose   me,   too, 

Even   the    weak  friendship   I   possessed. 

And   so,   I   masked   my  secret   well ; 
The   very   love    within  my   breast, 
Became   the    strange,   but    potent   spell 


58 


MADELINE. 


By   which   I   forced  it   into   rest. 
Yet  there   were   times,   I   scarce   know   how, 

These   eager   lips   refrained   to   speak,  — 
Some   kindly   smile    would   light   thy   brow, 

And   I   grew   passionate   and   weak ; 
The   secret   sparkled   at   my   eyes, 
And   love   but   half  repressed   its   sighs,  — 
Then   had   I   gazed   an   instant   more, 

Or   dwelt   one    moment   on   that   brow, 
I   might   have   changed   the   smile   it    wore, 

To   what   perhaps   it   weareth   now ; 
And   spite   of  all   I  feared   to   meet, 
Confessed   that   passion   at   thy   feet. 
To   save   my    heart,   to   spare   thine   own, 

There   was   one   remedy   alone. 
I   fled,   I   shunned   thy   very   touch,  — 
It   cost   me   much,   O    God !    how   much  ! 
But,   if  some   burning   tears   were   shed, 

Lady !   I   let   them   freely   flow ; 
At    least,   they   left   unbreathed,   unsaid, 

A   worse    and   wilder   woe. 

But   now,  —  now   that   we   part   indeed, 
And   that   I   may   not   think   as   then 

That   as   I   wish,   or  as   I   need, 
I   may   return   again, — 

Now   that   for   months,   perhaps   for   years  — 


MADELINE.  59 

I   see   no   limit   in   my   fears  — 

My  home   shall   be   some   distant   spot, 

Where   thou  —  where  even  thy  name   is   not,  — 

And   since   I   shall   not   see   the   frown, 

Such   wild,   mad   language  must   bring   down,  — 

Could   I  —  albeit   I   may   not   sue 

In   hope   to   bend   thy   steadfast   will  — 
Could   I   have   breathed   this    word,   adieu, 

And   kept   my   secret   still? 

Doubtless   thou  know'st   the   Hebrew  story  — 

The   tale 's   with   me   a   favorite   one  — 
How   Raphael   left   the    Courts   of   Glory, 

And   walked   with   Judah's   honored    Son ; 
And   how   the   twain   together   dwelt, 

And  how   they   talked   upon   the   road, 
How   often   too   they  must   have   knelt 

As   equals   to   the   same   kind    God ; 
And   still   the   mortal   never   guessed, 
How  much   and   deeply   he   was   blessed, 
Till   when  —  the   Angel's   mission   done  — 

The  spell  which   drew  him   earthwards,  riven  — 
The   lover   saved  —  the   maiden   won  — 

He   plumed    again   his   wings   for  Heaven ; 
O    Madeline !   as   unaware 
Thou   hast   been   followed   everywhere, 

And   girt   and   guarded   by   a   love, 


60  MADELINE. 

As   warm,   as   tender   in   its   care, 
As   pure,   ay,   powerful    in   prayer, 

As   any   saint   above  ! 
Like   the  bright   inmate   of  the   skies, 
It   only   looked   with   friendly   eyes, 
And   still   had   worn   the   illusive   guise, 

And   thus   at   least  been   half  concealed  ; 
But   at   this   parting,   painful   hour, 
It   spreads   its   wings,   unfolds   its    power, 

And   stands,   like   Raphael,   revealed. 

More,    Lady !   I   would   wish   to  speak,  — 
But   it   were   vain,   and  words   are   weak, 
And   now   that   I   have   bared   my   breast, 
Perchance   thou   wilt   infer   the   rest. 
So,    so,   farewell !    I   need   not   say 

I   look,   I   ask    for   no   reply, 
The    cold   and  scarcely   pitying   "  nay  " 

I   read   in   that   unmelted   eye ; 
Yet   one   dear   favor,   let  me   pray ! 

Days,   months,   however   slow   to   me, 
Must   drag   at   last   their   length   away, 

And   I   return  —  if  not  to  thee  — 
At   least   to   breathe   the   same   sweet   air 
That   woos   thy   lips   and   waves   thy   hair. 
Oh,   then  !  —  these   daring   lines   forgot  — 
Look,   speak   as   thou   hadst   read   them   not. 


MADELINE.  61 

So,    Lady,   may   I   still   retain 
A   right   I   would   not   lose   again, 
For   all   that   gold   or   guilt   can    buy, 
Or   all   that   Heaven  itself  deny, 
A   right   such  love   may  justly    claim, 
Of  seeing   thee   in   friendship's   name. 
Give  me   but   this,   and   still   at   whiles, 
A   portion   of  thy   faintest   smiles, 

It   were   enough   to   bless ; 
I   may   not,   dare  not   ask   for   more 
Than   boon   so   rich,   and   yet    so   poor, 

But   I   should   die   with   less. 


62  THE    SUMMER    BOWER. 


THE   SUMMER  BOWER. 

IT   is   a   place   whither   I've   often   gone 

For   peace,   and   found   it,    secret,  hushed   and   cool, 

A   beautiful  recess   in   neighboring   woods. 

Trees   of  the   soberest   hues,   thick-leaved    and   tall, 

Arch  it   o'erhead,   and   girt   it   with   their   brown 

Trunks,  interspersed  with   plants  of  humbler  growth, 

A   covert   framing,   natural   and   wild, 

Domelike    and  dim ;   though  nowhere  so    enclosed 

But   that   the   gentlest  breezes   reach   the   spot 

Unwearied   and   unweakened.     Other   sounds 

Than   the    low   dreamy   melodies   of  winds, 

And   the    soft   notes   of  birds,   of  that   lone   nook 

Are   transient   and  unfrequent    visitors. 

Yet   if  the   day   be   calm,   not   often   then, 

Whilst  the   high   pines   in   one   another's   arms 

Sleep,   you   may   sometimes   with    unstartled   ear 

Catch   the   far   fall   of  voices,   how   remote 

You   know   not,   and   you  do     not   care  to   know. 

Verdant   and   soft   the   turf,   but   not   a   flower 

Lights   the  recess,  save  one,   star-shaped   and  bright, 


THE    SUMMER    BOWER.  63 

That   sometimes   gleams    above   or   'mid   the   grass, 

A   wild   flower   which   I   know   by   sight,   not   name. 

A   narrow   opening  in   the   branched   roof, 

A   single   one,   is   large   enough   to  show, 

With   that   half  glimpse   a   dreamer   loves   so   much, 

The   blue   air   and  the   blessing   of  the  sky. 

Thither,   I   say,   I   often   bend   my   steps, 

When   griefs    depress,   or  joys    disturb    my   heart, 

And  find  the    calm    I    look    for,  or  return 

Strong   with   the   quiet   rapture   in  my   soul. 

But   one    day, 

One   of  those  July   days   when   winds   have   fled 
One   knows   not   whither,   I,   most   sick    in   mind 
With  thoughts   that  shall  be  nameless,  yet,  no  doubt, 
Wrong,   or   at    least   unhealthful,    since   though   dark 
With    gloom,  and   touched  with   discontent,  they   had 
No    adequate    excuse,    nor   cause,   nor   end, 
I,    with   these    thoughts,    and   on   this    summer    day, 
Entered   the   accustomed   haunt,  and   found   for   once 
No    medicinal   virtue. 

Not   a   leaf 

Stirred  with  the  whispering  welcome  which  I  sought, 
But   in   a   close   and     humid     atmosphere, 
Every   fair   plant  and   implicated   bough, 
Hung   lax   and   lifeless.     Something   in   the   place, 
Its   utter   stillness,  the   unusual   heat, 
And   some   more   secret   influence,  I   thought, 


64  THE    SUMMER    BOWER. 

Weighed   on    the   sense   like   sin.     Above   I   saw, 
Though   not   a   cloud   was   visible   in   heaven, 
The   pallid   sky   look   through   a   glazed   mist 
Like   a   blue   eye   in   death. 

The   change   perhaps 

Was   natural   enough;    my  jaundiced   sight, 
The    weather   and   the   time   explain   it   all : 
Yet  have   I   drawn   a   lesson   from   the  spot, 
And   shrined    it   in   these    verses   for   my  heart. 
Thenceforth   those    tranquil   precincts   I   have    sought 
Not   less,  and   in   all   shades    of  various   moods, 
But   always   shun   to   desecrate   the   spot 
By  weak   repinings,    sickly   sentiments, 
Or  inconclusive    sorrows.     Nature,   though 
Pure   as   she   was   in   Eden   when  her   breath 
Kissed   the   white   brow   of  Eve,  doth   not   refuse, 
In   her   own   way   and  .with   a  just   reserve, 
To   sympathize   with   human   suffering; 
But   for   the   pains,   the   fever,   and   the   fret 
Engendered   of  a   vain   and  idle   heart, 
She  hath   no   solace;   and   who    seeks   her   when 
These   be   the   troubles   over  which   he   moans, 
Reads   in   her  unreplying   lineaments 
Rebukes,   that,   to   the   guilty   consciousness, 
Strike   like   contempt. 


SECOND    LOVE.  65 


SECOND    LOVE. 

COULD   I   reveal   the   secret  joy 

Thy   presence   always   with   it   brings, 

The    memories    so    strangely    waked 
Of  long  forgotten  things, 

The   love,   the   hope,   the   fear,  the   griefy 
Which   with   that   voice   come   back   to   me, 

Thou   wouldst   forgive   the   impassioned  gaze 
So  often   turned    on   thee. 

It  was,   indeed,   that  early   love, 

But  foretaste   of  this   second   one, — 
The    soft   light   of  the  morning   star 

Before   the   morning   sun. 

« 

The  same  dark  beauty  in  her  eyes, 
The  same  blonde  hair  and  placid  brow, 

The  same  deep-meaning,  quiet  smile 
Thou  bendest  on-  me  now, 

5 


SECOND    LOVE. 


She   might   have   been,    she   was   no    more 
Than   what   a   prescient   hope    could    make,  — 

A   dear   presentiment   of  thee 
I   loved  but   for   thy   sake. 


A  RHAPSODY  OF  A  SOUTHERN  WINTER  NIGHT.      67 


A  RHAPSODY  OF   A   SOUTHERN  WINTER 
NIGHT. 

OH  !  dost  thou  flatter  falsely,  Hope,  sweet  Hope  ? 
The  day  hath  scarcely  passed  that  saw  thy  birth, 
Yet  thy  white  wings  are  plumed  to  all  their  scope, 
And  hour  by  hour  thine  eyes  have  gathered  light, 

And    grown    so    large   and    bright, 
That   ray   whole   future   life    unfolds    what   seems 

Beneath    their   gentle   beams, 

A   path   that   leads    athwart   some   guiltless    earth, 
To   which   a   star   is   dropping   from   the   night! 

Not   many   moons   ago, 

But  when   these  leafless   beds   were   all   aglow 
With   summer's   dearest   treasures,    I 
Was   reading   in   this  lonely   garden-nook ; 
A   July   noon    was    cloudless   in    the    sky, 
And    soon    I   put   my   shallow   studies   by ; 
Then   sick   at   heart,   and   angered  by   the   book, 
Which,  in   good   sooth,  was   but  the   long-drawn  sigh 
Of  some   one    who   had  quarrelled    with   his   kind, 
Vexed  at   the   very   proofs    which    I   had    sought, 


68     A  RHAPSODY  OF  A  SOUTHERN  WINTER  NIGHT. 

And   all   annoyed   while   all   alert  to   find 

A   plausible   likeness   of  my  own  dark   thought, 

I   cast  me   down  beneath   yon   oak's   wide   boughs, 

And,  shielding  with  both   hands  my  throbbing  brows, 

Watched   lazily   the    shadows    of  my   brain. 

The   feeble   tide   of  peevishness   went   down, 

And   left   a   flat   dull   waste   of   dreary   pain 

Which   seemed   to   clog   the   blood   in   every   vein ; 

The   world,   of  course,  put  on   its   darkest   frown  — 

In   all   its   realms   I   saw   no   mortal   crown 

Which   did   not  wound   or  crush   some  restless  head ; 

And   hope,   and   will,   and   motive,    all   were   dead. 

So,   passive   as   a   stone,   I   felt   too   low 

To   claim   a   kindred   with   the   humblest   flower ; 

Ev'n   that   would  bare  its   bosom   to   a   shower, 

While    I   henceforth   would   take  no   pains   to   live, 

Nor   place  myself  where   I   might  feel   or   give 

A    single   impulse    whence   a   wish   could   grow. 

There    was   a   tulip   scarce   a  gossamer's   throw 

Beyond   that   platanus.     A   little   child, 

Most    dear    to   me,   looked    through    the    fence    and 

smiled 

A   hint  that   I   should   pluck    it   for   her   sake. 
Ah,   me !     I   trust   I   was   not   well   awake  — 

The   voice    was    very   sweet, 
Yet   a   faint   languor   kept   me   in   my   seat. 
I   saw   a   pouted   lip,   a   toss,   and   heard 


A  RHAPSODY  OF  A  SOUTHERN  WINTER  NIGHT.     69 

Some   low   expostulating   tones,    but   stirred 
Not   ev'n   a   leafs   length,   till   the   pretty   fay, 
Wondering,   and   half  abashed   at   the   wild   feat, 
Climbed    the    low    pales,    and    laughed    my    gloom 
away. 

And   here   again,   but  led   by   other    Powers, 
A   morning   and   a   golden   afternoon, 
These   happy   stars,   and   yonder   setting   inoon, 
Have   seen   me   fleet,   unreckoned   and    untasked, 

A   round   of  precious   hours. 

Oh !   here,    where   in   that   summer   noon    I   basked, 
And   strove,   with   logic   frailer   than   the   flowers, 
To  justify   a   life   of  sensuous   rest, 
A   question    dear    as   home   or   heaven   was    asked, 
And   without   language    answered.     I  was   blest! 
Blest  with   those   nameless   boons  too   sweet   to  trust 
Unto   the   telltale   confidence   of  song. 
Love   to   his  own   glad   self  is   sometimes   coy, 
And   ev'n   thus   much  doth  seem  to  do  him  wrong ; 
While   in   the   fears    which   chasten   mortal  joy, 
Is   one   that   shuts   the   lips,   lest   speech   too   free, 
With   the   cold   touch   of  hard   reality, 
Should   turn   its   priceless  jewels   into   dust. 

Since    that    long    kiss    which    closed    the     morning's 
talk, 


70    A  RHAPSODY  OF  A  SOUTHERN  WINTER  NIGHT. 

I   have    not    strayed   beyond   this  garden    walk. 

As   yet   a    vague   delight   is    all    I   know, 

A    sense   of  joy   so    wild    'tis   almost   pain, 

And   like   a   trouble    drives    me    to   and   fro, 

And   will   not    pause    to    count   its    own    sweet   gain. 

I    am    so   happy,    that   is    all   my   thought ! 

To-morrow  I    will    turn    it    round    and    round, 

And   seek    to   know   its   limits   and    its    ground ; 

To-morrow   I   will    task    my    heart   to    learn 

The   duties    which    shall    spring   from    such   a   seed, 

And  where  it  must  be  sown,  and  how  be  wrought  — 

But   oh !    this   reckless   bliss   is   bliss   indeed !. 

And   for   one   day   I   choose   to    seal   the   urn 

Wherein   is    shrined   Love's   missal   and   his   creed. 

Meantime   I   give    my   fancy    all   it   craves ; 

Like    him    who    found     the     West     when     first     he 

caught     « 

The   light   that   glittered  from    the  world   he  sought, 
And   furled    his    sails    till    Dawn    should    show   the 

land  ; 

While   in   glad   dreams   he   saw   the    ambient   waves 
Go   rippling   brightly   up    a   golden   strand. 

Hath   there   not   been   a   softer   breath   at    play 
In    the   long   woodland   aisles    than    often    sweeps 
At   this  rough  season  through  their  solemn  deeps  — 
A   gentle   Ariel   sent   by   gentle    May, 


A  RHAPSODY  OF  A  SOUTHERN  WINTER  NIGHT.    71 

Who    knew   it  was    the    morn 

On   which   a   hope    was   born, 
To   greet   the   flower   ere   it   was   fully   blown, 
And   nurse    it   as   some   lily   of  her   own  ? 
And   wherefore,    save    to   grace   a   happy    day, 
Did   the   whole    west   at   blushing   sunset   glow 
With    clouds   that,   floating   up    in    bridal    snow, 
Passed  with   the   festal   eve,   rose-crowned,  away  ! 
And    now,    if  I    may   trust   my    straining   sight, 
The   heavens   appear   with   added    stars   to-night, 
And   deeper   depths,   and   more    celestial   height 
Than     hath    been     reached    except     in     dreams     or 

death. 

Hush,  sweetest  South !     I    love  thy  delicate  breath ; 
But   hush !   methought   I   felt   an   angel's    kiss ! 
Oh !    all   that   lives   is    happy   in    my    bliss. 
That   lonely   fir,   which   always    seems 
As   though   it   locked   dark    secrets   in   itself, 

Hideth    a   gentle   elf, 

Whose    wand    shall   send    me    soon    a   frolic   troop 
Of  rainbow   visions,    and   of  moonlit   dreams. 
Can  joy   be   weary,    that    my    eyelids    droop  ? 
To-night   I   shall   not   seek   my   curtained   nest, 

But   even   here   find   rest. 

Who  whispered  then  ?     And  what  are  they  that  peep 
Betwixt   the    foliage   in   the   tree-top    there  ? 
Come,    Fairy    Shadows !    for   the   morn   is   near, 


72     A  RHAPSODY  OF  A  SOUTHERN  WINTER  NIGHT. 

When   to   your   sombre   pine   ye   all   must   creep ; 
Come,   ye    wild   pilots   of  the    darkness,    ere 
My   spirit   sinks   into   the    gulf  of  Sleep; 
Ev'n   now   it   circles   round   and   round   the   deep  — 
Appear !     Appear ! 


FLOWER-LIFE.  73 


FLOWER-LIFE. 

I    THINK   that   next   to   your   sweet   eyes, 
And   pleasant   books,   and   starry   skies, 

I   love   the   world    of  flowers ; 
Less   for   their   beauty   of  a   day, 
Than   for   the   tender   things   they   say, 
And   for   a   creed   I've   held   alway, 

That   they   are  sentient   powers. 

It   may   be   matter   for   a   smile  — 
And   I   laugh   secretly   the   while 

I   speak   the   fancy    out  — 
But   that   they   love,   and   that   they    woo, 
And   that   they   often   marry   too, 
And   do   as   noisier   creatures    do, 

I've   not   the   faintest   doubt. 

And    so,   I    cannot   deem   it   right 

To   take   them   from   the   glad   sunlight, 

As   I   have    sometimes   dared ; 
Though   not   without   an   anxious    sigh 


74  FLOWER-LIFE. 

Lest   this    should    break    some   gentle    tie, 
Some    covenant   of  friendship,    I 
Had    better   far   have    spared. 

And   when,   in    wild   or   thoughtless   hours, 
My    hand   hath   crushed   the   tiniest   flowers, 

I   ne'er   could   shut   from   sight 
The    corpses    of  the    tender   things, 
With   other   drear   imaginings, 
And   little    angel-flowers    with  wings 

Would   haunt   me   through    the   night. 

Oh !    say   you,   friend,  the    creed   is  fraught 
With    sad,   and    ev'n    with    painful   thought, 

Nor   could   you   bear   to   know 
That   such   capacities   belong 
To   creatures   helpless   against   wrong, 
At   once   too   weak    to    fly   the    strong 

Or   front   the   feeblest   foe? 

So   be   it   always,    then,    with    you ; 
So   be   it  —  whether   false   or   true  — 

I   press   my   faith    on   none ; 
If  other   fancies    please   you   more, 
The   flowers    shall   blossom    as   before, 
Dear   as   the    Sybil-leaves   of  yore, 

But   senseless,    every   one. 


FLOWER-LIFE.  75 

Yet,    though    I    give]  you   no   reply, 
It   were   not   hard   to  justify 

My   creed   to    partial    ears ; 
But,    conscious    of    the    cruel   part, 
My   rhymes    would   flow  with    faltering   art, 
I   could   not   plead   against   your   heart, 

Nor    reason    'gainst    your   tears. 


76  LOVE'S  LOGIC. 


LOVE'S  LOGIC. 

AND    if  I   ask   thee   for   a   kiss, 

I   ask   no   more   than   this   sweet   breeze, 
With   far   less   title   to   the   bliss, 

Steals   every   minute   at   his    ease. 
And   yet   how   placid   is   thy   brow ! 

It   seems   to   woo   the   bold   caress, 
While   now   he   takes   his   kiss,   and   now 

All   sorts   of  freedoms   with   thy   dress. 

Or   if  I   dare   thy   hand   to   touch, 

Hath   nothing   pressed   its    palm    before  ? 
A   flower,   I'm   sure,    hath   done    as    much, 

And   ah !    some   senseless   diamond    more. 
It   strikes   me,    Love,   the    very   rings, 

Now    sparkling   on   that   hand   of  thine, 
Could   tell   some    truly   startling    things, 

If  they   had   tongues   or   touch    like   mine. 

Indeed,   indeed,   I   do   not   know 

Of  all   that   thou    hast   power    to   grant, 


LOVE'S  LOGIC.  77 

• 
A   boon  for   which   I   could   not   show 

Some    pretty   precedent   extant. 
Suppose,   for   instance,   I   should   clasp 

Thus,  —  so,  —  and  thus  !  —  thy  slender  waist  — 
I    would   not   hold    within   my    grasp 

More    than   this   loosened    zone    embraced. 

Oh !    put   the   anger   from   thine    eyes, 

Or   shut   them   if  they    still    must   frown ; 
Those    lids,    despite   yon   garish   skies, 

Can   bring   a   timely   darkness  down. 
Then,   if  in   that    convenient   night, 

My   lips    should  press   thy    dewy   mouth, 
The   touch   shall   be   so   soft,   so   light, 

Thou'lt   fancy   me  —  this   gentle    South. 


78  YOUTH   AND    MANHOOD. 


YOUTH   AND  MANHOOD. 

ANOTHER   year !  —  a   short   one,   if  it   flow 

Like   that  just   past,  — 
And   I   shall   stand  —  if  years    can   make    me  so  — 

A   man   at   last. 

Yet,    while   the   hours   permit   me,   I   would    pause 

And   contemplate 
The   lot   whereto   unalterable   laws 

Have    bound   my   fate. 

Yet,   from    the    starry   regions   of  my   youth, 

The    empyreal   height, 
Where   dreams   are   happiness,   and   feeling   truth, 

And   life   delight  — 

From   that   ethereal   and   serene   abode, 

My   soul    would   gaze 
Downwards    upon   the   wide   and   winding    road. 

Where    manhood   plays; 


YOUTH   AND   MANHOOD.  79 

« 

Plays    with   the    baubles    and   the    gauds    of  earth  — 

Wealth,    power,    and   fame  — 
Nor   knows   that   in    the    twelvemonth    after   birth 

He   did   the   same. 

Where    the   descent   begins,    through    long   defiles 

I    see    them    wind ; 
And    some   are   looking   down    with    hopeful    smiles, 

And    some    are  —  blind. 

And   farther   on   a   gay   and   glorious    green 

Dazzles    the    sight, 
While   noble   forms    are    moving   o'er   the    scene, 

Like    things   of  light. 

Towers,    temples,    domes   of  perfect    symmetry, 

Rise   broad   and   high, 
With    pinnacles    among   the    clouds ;  —  ah   me  ! 

None   touch   the   sky. 

None    pierce   the   pure    and   lofty    atmosphere 

Which   I   breathe    now  — 
And   the   strong   spirits    that   inhabit    there, 

Live  —  God   sees   how. 

Sick   of  the    very   treasure   which   they   heap ; 
Their   tearless    eyes 


80  YOUTH   AND   MANHOOD. 

Sealed   ever   in   a   heaven-forgetting   sleep 
Whose    dreams   are   lies. 

And   so,    a   motley,   unattractive   throng, 

They   toil   and   plod, 
Dead   to   the   holy   ecstacies    of  song, 

To   love    and    God. 

Dear    God !   if  that   I   may   not    keep  through   life 

My    trust,   my   truth, 
And   that   I   must,   in   yonder   endless    strife, 

Lose   faith   with   youth  — 

If  the   same   toil   which   indurates    the    hand 

Must   steel   the  heart, 
Till,   in   the   wonders   of  the   Ideal    Land, 

It   have   no   part  — 

Oh !   take   me   hence !    I   would   no   longer    stay 

Beneath   the   sky ; 
Give   me   to   chant   one   pure   and   deathless   lay, 

And   let   me   die ! 


TO    WHOM?  81 


TO  WHOM? 

AWAKE   upon   a   couch   of  pain, 

I   see   a   star  betwixt   the   trees; 
Across   yon   darkening    field   of  cane, 

Comes    slow    and   soft   the   evening   breeze. 
My   curtain's   folds   are   faintly   stirred ; 

And   moving   lightly   in   her   rest, 
I   hear   the    chirrup   of    a   bird, 

That   dreameth   in    some   neighboring   nest. 

Last   night   I   took   no   note   of  these  — 

How   it   was   passed   I   scarce   can   say ; 
'Twas   not   in   prayers    to    Heaven   for   ease, 

'Twas   not   in   wishes   for   the   day. 
Impatient   tears,   and   passionate    sighs, 

Touched   as   with   fire   the   pulse   of  pain,- 
I   cursed,   and   cursed   the    wildering   eyes 

That   burned  this   fever   in   my   brain. 

Oh !   blessings   on   the   quiet   hour ! 

My   thoughts   in   calmer   current   flow; 
She   is   not   conscious   of  her   power, 

And   hath   no   knowledge   of  my   woe. 


82  TO    WHOM  ? 

Perhaps,    if  like    yon    peaceful    star, 
She    looked   upon    my   burning   brow, 

She   would    not   pity   from   afar, 

But   kiss   me    as   the   breeze   does    now. 


TO    THEE.  83 


TO  THEE. 

DRAW   close   the  lattice   and   the   door ! 

Shut  out  the  very  stars  above ! 
No  other  eyes  than  mine  shall  pore 

Upon  this  thrilling  tale  of  love. 
As,  since  the  book  was  open  last. 

Along  its  dear  and  sacred  text, 
No  other  eyes  than  thine  have  passed  — 

Be   mine   the   eyes   that  trace   it   next! 

Oh !   very   nobly   is   it   wrought,  — 

This   web   of  love's   divinest   light,  — 
But   not   to   feed   my   soul   with   thought, 

Hang   I   upon   the   book   to-night ; 
I   read   it   only   for   thy   sake, 

To   every   page   my   lips   I  press  — 
The   very   leaves   appear   to   make 

A   silken   rustle   like   thy   dress. 

And   so,   as   each   blest   page    I   turn, 
I   seem,   with   many   a   secret   thrill, 

To   touch   a   soft   white   hand,   and   burn 
To   clasp   and   kiss   it   at   my   will. 


84  TO    THEE. 

Oh !   if  a   fancy   be    so   sweet 

These   shadowy   fingers   touching   mine  — 
How   wildly   would   my   pulses   beat, 

If  they   could  feel   the   beat   of  thine! 


HYMN.  85 


HYMN. 

SUNG  AT  THE  CONSECRATION  OF  MAGNOLIA  CEMETERY, 
CHARLESTON,  (8.  C.) 

WHOSE  was   the   hand  that  painted  thee,  O  Death! 

In   the   false   aspect   of  a  ruthless  foe, 
Despair   and   sorrow   waiting   on  thy   breath  — 

O   gentle   Power !   who   could   have  wronged   thee 
so? 

Thou    rather    should'st    be    crowned    with    fadeless 
flowers, 

Of  lasting   fragrance   and   celestial   hue ; 
Or   be    thy   couch   amid   funereal   bowers, 

But   let   the    stars   and    sunlight   sparkle   through. 

So,   with   these   thoughts   before   us,   we   have   fixed 
And   beautified,   O   Death !   thy   mansion   here, 

Where   gloom   and    gladness  —  grave   and   garden  — 

mixed, 
Make   it   a   place   to   love,   and   not   to   fear. 


86  HYMN. 

Heaven !    shed   thy   most   propitious   dews   around ! 

Ye   holy   stars !   look   down   with   tender   eyes, 
And   gild   and   guard,   and   consecrate   the   ground 

Where    we    may   rest,   and    whence    we    pray   to 
rise. 


STANZAS.  87 


STANZAS. 

A  MOTHER  GAZES  UPON  HER  DAUGHTER,  ARRAYED  FOR 
AN  APPROACHING  BRIDAL.  WRITTEN  IN  ILLUSTRA- 
TION OF  A  TABLEAU  VIVANT. 

Is  she  not  lovely !  Oh !  when,  long  ago, 
My  own  dead  mother  gazed  upon  my  face, 

As  I  stood  blushing  near  in  bridal  snow, 
I  had  not  half  her  beauty  and  her  grace. 

Yet   that   fond   mother    praised,    the    world   caressed 
And   one  adored   me  —  how   shall   he   who   soon 

Shall    wear   my    gentle   flower   upon    his    breast, 
Prize   to   its   utmost   worth   the    priceless   boon? 

Shall  he  not  gird  her,  guard  her,  make  her  rich, 
(Not  as  the  world  is  rich,  in  outward  show,) 

With    all    the    love    and   watchful    kindness    which 
A   wise    and   tender   manhood   may    bestow. 

Oh !    I    shall    part   from   her    with    many    tears, 
My  earthly    treasure,    pure    and    undefiled ! 

And   not    without   a   weight    of  anxious   fears 
For    the    new    future   of  my    darling   child. 


88  STANZAS. 

And   yet  —  for   well   I   know   that   virgin    heart  — 
No    wifely   duty   will    she    leave   undone ; 

Nor   will   her   love    neglect   that   woman's    art 
Which    courts   and   keeps    a   love    already   won. 

In    no    light   girlish    levity    she   goes 

Unto   the   altar   where   they   wait   her   now, 

But   with   a   thoughtful,   prayerful   heart   that   knows 
The   solemn    purport   of  a   marriage    vow. 

And   she   will  keep,  with   all   her   soul's   deep  truth, 
The    lightest    pledge    which    binds    her   love    and 
life; 

And   she   will   be  —  no   less   in   age   than   youth  — 
My   noble   child   will   be  —  a   noble   wife. 

And   he,    her   lover !   husband !   what   of  him  ? 

Yes,  he  will   shield,  I   think,  my  bud  from  blight ! 
Yet   griefs   will   come  —  enough !   my   eyes   are   dim 

With   tears   I   must   not   shed,   at   least,    to-night. 

Bless   thee,  my  daughter  !  —  Oh  !    she   is   so  fair  !  — 
Heaven   bend  above   thee  with   its   starriest  skies ! 

And   make   thee   truly   all   thou   dost   appear 
Unto   a   lover's   and   thy   mother's   eyes  ! 


FLORABEL.  89 


FLORABEL. 

0  FLORABEL  !    I   know   you   well ! 

You    cannot   cheat   me   with   your  smiles ; 
That   downcast   lash,   those    sidelong   looks, 

Are   baits   to    catch   me   in    your    wiles. 
And   spite   of  all   you    would   affect, 

And   all   that   distant   mien    denies, 

1  read   what   you    would   never   tell, 
In   the   arch   beauty   of  your   eyes. 

O    Florabel !    I   know   you    well ! 

Your   voice   is    very   sweet   and   low ; 
But,    right  or   wrong,    I   dare    to   think 

It   is   by   no   means   always    so. 
And   you    can   talk,   as   ladies    talk, 

Of  stars,   and   gems,   and  flowers,  and   books, 
But   I   am   very   sure   I   see 

Less   thought   than   mischief  in   your   looks. 

Yes,    Florabel !    I   know   you    well ! 

I   read   at   sight   each    girlish   art ; 
When   that   sweet   brow   is   most   sedate, 

I   know   you're   laughing   in   your   heart. 


90  FLORABEL. 

And    when   you    turn    to   hear   me    speak, 
And   seem   so   very   pleased   to   hear, 

I   guess   the  jest   upon   myself 
You're   keeping   for   another's   ear. 

O    Florabel !    I   know   you    well ! 

You   love   to   flatter   and    to   please, 
But   at   your   home    I   do   suspect 

They    call   you    plague,    and    scold,   and    tease, 
With   names   I   do   not   care    to   speak, 

Lest   you    should   turn    them   into    praise, — 
In   short,    to    sum   my   charges    up, 

You    have   the   most   provoking   ways. 

0  Florabel !    'twould   please   me    well 
To   see   you   once   or   twice   alone ; 

Concealed   behind   a   curtain,  I 

Might   catch   at   last   a   natural   tone. 

1  hate    the   art    that   veils    each   thought, 
I   am   not   cheated   by   your    wiles ; 

You    have   not    touched    my    heart   at    all, 
And   shall    not    blind    me    with   your    smiles. 


BABY'S  AGE.  91 


BABY'S   AGE. 

SHE    came    with    April   blooms   and   showers ; 

We    count   her   little    life    by    flowers. 

As   buds   the   rose   upon   her   cheek, 

We   choose   a   flower   for   every   week. 

A   week   of  hyacinths,   we   say, 

And   one   of  heart's-ease,  ushered   May  ; 

And   then   because   two    wishes   met 

Upon   the   rose    and   violet  — 

I   liked   the    Beauty,    Kate   the   Nun  — 

The    violet   and   the   rose   count   one. 

A    week   the    apple   marked   with    white ; 

A    week    the    lily    scored   in   light; 

Red   poppies   closed   May's   happy   moon, 

And   tulips    this   blue    week    in    June. 

Here    end   as   yet   the   flowery   links; 

To-day   begins   the    week   of  pinks; 

But   soon  —  so   grave,   and   deep,   and   wise, 

The   meaning   grows    in    Baby's    eyes, 

So   very   deep   for   Baby's   age  — 

We   think   to   date   a   week   with   sage! 


92    THE    STREAM   IS    FLOWING   FROM   THE   WEST. 


THE   STREAM  IS  FLOWING   FROM  THE  WEST. 

THE    stream   is    flowing   from   the   west ; 

As   if  it   poured   from   yonder   skies, 
It  wears   upon   its   rippling   breast 

The   sunset's   golden   dyes ; 
And   bearing   onward   to   the  sea, 
'Twill   clasp   the   isle   that   holdeth   thee. 

I   dip   my   hand   within   the   wave ; 

Ah !    how   impressionless   and   cold ! 
I   touch   it   with    my   lip,   and   lave 

My   forehead   in   the   gold. 
It   is    a    trivial    thought,    but    sweet, 
Perhaps   the    wave   will   kiss   thy   feet. 

Alas !   I   leave  no   trace   behind  — 

As   little   on   the   senseless   stream 
As   on    thy   heart,    or   on    thy   mind ;  — 

Which    was   the   simpler   dream, 
To   win   that   warm    wild   love   of  thine, 
Or   make   the   water   whisper   mine? 


THE    STREAM   IS   FLOWING   FROM   THE    WEST.     93 

Dear   stream !    some    moons    must    wax   and    wane 

Ere    I   again   shall   cross   thy   tide, 
And   then   perhaps   a   viewless  chain 

Will   drag   me   to   her  side, 
To  love   with   all  my  spirit's   scope, 
To    wish,   do   everything   but  —  hope. 


94  SONG. 


SONG. 

WHEN    I    bade    thee    adieu,    thou    rememb'rest    the 

time, 

To   depart   for   no    distant   or   alien    clime, 
Oh !    who   would    have    deemed,   as   I   sighed    it   in 

tears, 
The    farewell   then    spoken   a   farewell   for   years! 

Yet,   believe    me,   whatever    those    years   may   have 

brought 

Of  deadness   to    feeling,   or   sadness   to   thought, 
And   whatever    the    shame    they   have    stamped    on 

my   brow, 
No    change   ever   touched    my   first    passionate   vow. 

Still   I  Ve   looked  to  thy  love  as  men  look  to  a  star, 
Which    may   never    be    reached,   yet   is    worshipped 

afar, 

And    always    in    gladness,  and    always   in    gloom, 
The    star   of  thy   smile    was   the   star   of   my   doom. 


SONG.  95 

I   have   bowed,   it   is   true,   before   many   a   shrine ; 
Have   praised,   and   have    sung   charms   less   winning 

than    thine, 
But    the    song   was    ne'er    more   than    a    passionless 

glee, 
I   kept   the   soul's   language  —  my    silence   for   thee. 

And,  indeed,  if  sometimes  I  gave  more  than  a  song, 
Thou    wast    ever   the    cause,    and    must    pardon   the 

wrong, 

For   wherever   a   blue    eye   bewitchingly    shone, 
I   saw   in   its   beauty   a   type   of  thine   own. 

That    falsehood     is    dead,     and     these    follies    have 

passed, 

And    again   I   come   back   to   thee,   dearest,   at   last, 
With  the  feelings  of  one  who  hath  circled  the  earth, 
But   to   strengthen    his    love    for    the    home   of    his 

birth. 


96  HARK    TO    THE    SHOUTING    WIND ! 


HARK  TO   THE   SHOUTING  WIND! 

HARK   to   the   shouting   Wind! 

Hark    to   the   flying   Rain ! 
And   I   care  not   though   I   never   see 

A   bright   blue   sky   again. 

There   are   thoughts   in   my   breast   to-day 
That   are   not   for  human  speech ; 

But   I   hear  them   in   the   driving   storm, 
And    the   roar   upon   the   beach. 

And   O,   to   be    with   that   ship 

That   I    watch    through  the    blinding   brine ! 

0  Wind !    for   thy   sweep   of  land   and    sea ! 
O    Sea !   for   a   voice   like   thine ! 

Shout   on,   thou   pitiless   Wind, 
To   the   frightened   and   flying    Rain ! 

1  care   not   though    I   never    see 
A  calm   blue   sky   again. 


VOX    ET    PRETEREA    NIHIL.  97 


VOX  ET  PRETEREA  NIHIL. 

I'VE    been    haunted    all    night,    I've    been    haunted 

all   day 

By   the   ghost   of  a   song,   by   the   shade   of  a   lay, 
That  with  meaningless  words  and  profusion  of  rhyme, 
To   a   dreamy   and   musical   rhythm   keeps   time. 
A   simple,   but   still   a   most   magical   strain, 
Its   dim   monotones   have   bewildered   my   brain 
With  a  specious  and  cunning  appearance  of  thought, 
I   seem  to   be   catching   but   never   have   caught. 

I   know   it    embodies   some    very   sweet   things, 
And   can   almost   divine   the   low   burden   it   sings ; 
But   again,   and   again,    and   still   ever   again, 
It   has   died   on    my   ear   at   the    touch   of  my   pen. 
And   so   it   keeps   courting   and   shunning   my  quest, 
As  a  bird  that  has  just  been  aroused  from  her  nest, 
Too   fond   to   depart,  and   too   frightened   to   stay, 
Now   circles   about   you,   now   flutters   away. 
7 


98  VOX    ET    PRETEREA    NIHIL. 

Oh !    give   me   fit   words   for   that   exquisite    song, 
And  thou  could'st  not,  proud  beauty  !  be  obdurate  long, 
It  would  come  like  the  voice  of  a  saint  from  above, 
And   win   thee   to   kindness,   and   melt   thee  to   love. 
Not   gilded    with   fancy,    nor   frigid   with   art, 
But    simple   as  feeling,   and   warm   as   the  heart, 
It   would    murmur    iny    name    with    so    charming    a 

tone, 
As   would    almost   persuade    thee   to    wish    it    thine 

own. 


RETIREMENT.  99 


RETIREMENT. 

MY   gentle   friend !     I  hold   no   creed   so  false 
As   that   which   dares    to   teach   that   we   are   born 
For   battle   only,    and   that   in    this   life 
The   soul,   if  it   would   burn    with   starlike   power, 
Must   needs   forsooth   be   kindled   by   the    sparks 
Struck   from   the   shock  of  clashing  human   hearts. 
There   is   a    wisdom   that    grows   up   in    strife, 
And   one  —  I   like   it   best  —  that   sits   at   home 
And   learns   its   lessons   of  a   thoughtful   ease. 
So   come  !   a   lonely  house   awaits  thee  !  —  there 
Nor  praise,  nor    blame    shall    reach  us,   save   what 

love 

Of  knowledge   for   itself  shall   wake   at   times 
In   our   own   bosoms ;    come !    and   we   will   build 
A   wall   of  quiet   thought,   and   gentle  books, 
Betwixt   us   and   the   hard   and   bitter   world. 
Sometimes  —  for    we   need   not    be   anchorites  — 
A   distant   friend   shall    cheer   us    through    the    Post 
Or   some   gazette  —  of  course   no   partisan  — 
Shall  bring  us   pleasant   news   of  pleasant   things, 


100  RETIREMENT. 

Then   twisted   into   graceful   alluraettes, 

Each   ancient  joke   shall   blaze   with   genuine    flame 

To    light   our   pipes   and   candles ;   but    to   wars, 

Whether   of  words   or   weapons,   we    shall   be 

Deaf — so    we    twain    shall   pass   away   the   time 

Ev'n   as   a   pair   of  happy  lovers,    who, 

Alone,    within    some    quiet   garden-nook, 

With   a   clear   night   of  stars   above   their   heads, 

Just   hear,    betwixt   their   kisses   and   their   talk, 

The   tumult   of  a   tempest   rolling   through 

A   chain   of  neighboring   mountains ;  they   awhile 

Pause    to   admire   a   flash   that   only  shows 

The   smile    upon   their   faces,   but,   full   soon, 

Turn    with    a   quick,   glad   impulse,    and    perhaps 

A   conscious  wile   that   brings   them   closer   yet, 

To   dally    with   their   own   fond   hearts,    and   play 

With   the  sweet   flowers   that   blossom   at   their   feet. 


THE    MESSENGER    ROSE.  101 


THE    MESSENGER  ROSE. 

IF   you   have   seen   a   richer   glow, 

Pray,   tell   me   where   your   roses   blow! 

Look  !    coral-leafed  !   and  —  mark   these   spots  ! 

Red   staining   red   in   crimson   clots, 

Like   a   sweet   lip  bitten   through 

In   a   pique.     There,   where   that    hue 

Is    spilt   in    drops,    some   fairy   thing 

Hath   gashed   the   azure   of  its   wing, 

Or   thence,    perhaps,    this    very   morn, 

Plucked   the   splinters   of  a   thorn. 

Rose !   I   make   thy   bliss   my   care ! 
In    my   lady's    dusky    hair 
Thou    shalt   burn,   this    coming   night, 
With    ev'n   a   richer   crimson   light. 
To   requite   me   thou   shalt   tell 
What   /  might   not   say   as    well, 
How   I   love   her ;   how,   in   brief, 
On   a   certain   crimson   leaf 


102  THE    MESSENGER    ROSE. 

In   my   bosom,   is   a   debt 
Writ  in   deeper   crimson   yet. 
If  she   wonder   what   it   be,  — 
But   she'll   guess   it,   I   foresee, — 
Tell   her   that   I   date   it,   pray, 
From  the   first  sweet  night  in   May. 


TOO    LOtfG,    0    SPIRIT    OF    STORM  !  103 


TOO  LONG,   O   SPIRIT   OF  STORM! 

Too   long,    O    Spirit   of  Storm, 

Thy   lightning   sleeps    in   its  sheath ! 

I   am   sick   to  the   soul   of  yon   pallid   sky, 
And   the   moveless   sea   beneath. 

Come   down  in   thy   strength   on   the   deep ! 

Worse   dangers   there   are   in   life, 
When   the   waves   are   still,   and   the    skies  look 
fair, 

Than   in   their   wildest   strife. 

A   friend   I   knew,   whose   days 

Were   as   calm   as   this   sky   overhead; 

But   one   blue   morn    that   was   fairest   of  all, 
The   heart   in   his   bosom   fell    dead. 

And   they   thought   him   alive   while   he   walked 
The   streets   that   he    walked   in   youth ;  — 

Ah !    little   they   guessed   the   seeming   man 
Was   a   soulless   corpse   in   sooth. 


104  TOO    LONG,    0    SPIRIT    OF    STORM  ! 

Come   down   in   thy   strength,    O    Storm ! 

And   lash   the   deep   till   it  raves ! 
I   am   sick   to   the   soul  of    that   quiet   sea, 

Which   hides   ten   thousand   graves. 


THE    LILY    CONFIDANTE.  105 


THE  LILY   CONFIDANTE. 

LILY  !   lady   of  the   garden ! 

Let   me   press   my   lip   to   thine ! 
Love   must   tell   its   story,    Lily ! 

Listen   thou  to  mine. 

Two   I   choose   to   know   the    secret  — 
Thee,   and   yonder   wordless  flute ; 

Dragons    watch   me,   tender   Lily, 
And   thou    must   be   mute. 

There's   a   maiden,   and  her   name   is .... 

Hist !    was   that   a   rose-leaf  fell  ? 
See,   the    Rose    is   listening,    Lily, 

And   the    Rose   may   tell. 

Lily-browed   and   lily-hearted, 

She   is   very   dear     to   me ; 
Lovely?   yes,   if  being   lovely, 

Is resembling   thee. 


106  THE    LILY    CONFIDANTE. 

Six  to  half  a  score  of  summers 
Make  the  sweetest  of  the  "  teens  "  — 

Not   too   young   to   guess,   dear    Lily, 
What   a    lover   means. 

Laughing   girl,   and   thoughtful  woman, 
I   am   puzzled  how   to   woo,  — 

Shall   I   praise,   or   pique   her,   Lily? 
Tell   me   what   to   do. 

"Silly   lover,   if  thy    Lily 

Like   her   sister   lilies   be, 
Thou   must   woo,   if  thou    wouldst   wear   her, 

With   a   simple   plea. 

"  Love's   the   lover's   only   magic, 

Truth   the    very   subtlest   art, 
Love    that   feigns,   and   lips   that  flatter 

Win   no  modest   heart. 

"  As  the  dewdrop  in  my  bosom, 
Be  thy  guileless  language,  youth ! 

Falsehood  buyeth  falsehood  only, 
Truth  must  purchase  truth. 

"As  thou  talkest  at  the  fireside, 
With  the  little  children  by, 


THE    LILY     CONFIDANTE.  107 

As   thou    prayest   in   the   darkness, 
When    thy    God   is    nigh, 

"With   a   speech   as   chaste   and   gentle, 

And   such   meanings   as  become 
Ear   of  child,   or   ear   of  angel  — 

Speak,   or  be   thou   dumb. 

"  Woo   her  thus,   and   she   shall   give   thee 

Of  her   heart   the   sinless   whole, 
AH   the   girl    within   her   bosom, 

And   her   woman's   soul." 


108  TO    A    CAPTIVE    OWL. 


TO   A    CAPTIVE   OWL. 

I    SHOULD    be   dumb   before   thee,   feathered   sage ! 

And   gaze   upon    thy   phiz   with    solemn   awe, 
But   for   a   most   audacious   wish   to   guage 

The   hoarded    wisdom   of  thy   learned   craw. 

Art   thou,   grave    Bird !    so   wondrous   wise   indeed  ? 

Speak   freely,   without   fear   of  jest   or   gibe  — 
What   is   thy   moral   and   religious    creed? 

And   what   the   metaphysics   of  thy   tribe  ? 

A   Poet,   curious   in    birds   and   brutes, 
I   do   not   question   thee   in   idle   play ; 

What   is   thy   station  ?     What   are   thy   pursuits  ? 
Doubtless  thou  hast  thy  pleasures  —  what  are  they  ? 

Or   is't   thy   wont   to   muse   and   mouse   at   once, 
Entice   thy   prey  with   airs   of  meditation, 

And   with   the    unvarying   habits   of  a   dunce, 
To   dine  in   solemn   depths   of  contemplation  ? 


TO    A    CAPTIVE    OWL.  109 

There  may  be  much  —  the  world  at  least  says   so  — 
Behind  that  ponderous  brow  and  thoughtful  gaze; 

Yet   such   a   great    philosopher    should    know, 
It   is   by   no   means    wise    to    think   always. 

And,    Bird,    despite    thy   meditative    air, 
I   hold    thy    stock   of  wit   but    paltry    pelf  — 

Thou   show'st   that   same   grave   aspect   everywhere, 
And  wouldst  look  thoughtful,  stuffed,  upon  a  shelf. 

I   grieve    to    be    so    plain,    renowned    Bird,  — 
Thy   fame's    a   flam,    and   thou    an    empty   fowl ; 

And    what   is   more,    upon    a    Poet's  "Word 
I'd   say   as    much,    wert   thou    Minerva's   owl. 

So  doff  th'   imposture    of  those    heavy   brows ; 

They    do    not   serve    to   hide   thy  instincts  base  — 
And   if  thou   must   be   sometimes    munching   mouse, 

Munch   it,    O    Owl !    with   less   profound   a   face. 


110  ON    PRESSING    SOME    FLOWERS. 


ON  PRESSING   SOME  FLOWERS. 

So   they   are   dead !     Love !   when  they   passed 
From   thee   to   me,    our   fingers    met; 

O    withered   darlings   of  the    May ! 
I   feel   those   fairy   fingers   yet. 

And   for   the   bliss   ye   brought    me   then 
Your   faded   forms  are   precious    things,  — 

No   flowers   so   fair,   no   buds   so    sweet 

Shall    bloom   through   all   my   future    springs. 

And   so,   pale   ones !    with   hands    as   soft 

As   if  I  closed   a   baby's   eyes, 
I'll   lay   you   in   some   favorite   book, 

Made   sacred   by   a   Poet's     sighs. 

Your  lips   shall   press   the   sweetest   song, 
The   sweetest,   saddest   song   I   know, 

As   ye   had   perished,   in   your   pride, 
Of  some   lone   Bard's   melodious   woe. 


ON   PRESSING   SOME   FLOWERS.  Ill 

Oh,   Love !   hath    love   no   holier   shrine ! 

Oh,   heart !   could  love   but  lend   the   power, 
I'd   lay   thy   crimson   pages   bare, 

And   every  leaf  should   fold   its   flower. 


112  HYMN. 


HYMN. 

SUNG  AT  AN  ANNIVERSARY  OF  THE  ASYLUM  OF 
ORPHANS  AT  CHARLESTON. 

WE    scarce,    O    God !    could   lisp   thy   name, 
When  those    who   loved   us   passed   away ; 

And   left    us    but   thy   love   to   claim, 
With   but  an   infant's    strength    to   pray. 

Thou    gav'st   that    Refuge   and   that    Shrine, 
At    which   we   learn    to   know   thy    ways ; 

Father !    the   fatherless   are   thine ! 

Thou    wilt   not   spurn   the   orphan's   praise. 

Yet  hear   a   single   cry   of  pain ! 

Lord !    whilst   we   dream   in    quiet   beds, 
The    summer   sun   and    winter   rain 

Beat   still   on   many   homeless   heads. 

And   o'er   this    weary  earth,   we   know, 

Young   outcasts   roam   the   waste   and   wave ; 

And   little   hands   are    clasped   in    woe 
Above   some   tender   mother's   grave. 


HYMN. 

Ye   winds !    keep   every   storm   aloof, 
And   kiss   away   the   tears   they   weep  ! 

Ye   skies,   that   make   their   only   roof, 
Look  gently   on   their  houseless   sleep! 

And   thou,    O   Friend   and    Father!   find 
A  home   to   shield   their   helpless   youth ! 

Dear   hearts   to   love  —  sweet   ties   to  bind  — 
And   guide  and   guard   them   in   the   truth ! 


114  A    COMMON    THOUGHT. 


A   COMMON  THOUGHT. 

SOMEWHERE   on   this   earthly   planet 
In   the   dust  of  flowers   to  be, 

In   the  dewdrop,   in   the   sunshine, 
Sleeps   a   solemn   day  for   me. 

At   this   wakeful   hour   of  midnight 

I   behold   it   dawn    in   mist, 
And  I   hear   a   sound    of  sobbing 

Through   the   darkness,  —  hist!    oh,   hist! 

In   a   dim   and   musky   chamber, 

I   am   breathing   life   away; 
Some   one   draws   a   curtain    softly, 

And   I   watch   the   broadening   day. 

As   it   purples   in   the   zenith, 
As   it   brightens   on   the   lawn, 

There's   a   hush   of  death   about   me, 
And   a  whisper,   "  He   is  gone  ! " 


SONNETS. 


SONNETS. 


POET!  —  if  on  a   lasting  fame   be   bent 

Thy   unperturbing   hopes,   thou    wilt   not   roam 

Too  far   from  thine  own   happy  heart   and   home;  — 

Cling   to   the   lowly   earth,   and   be    content. 

So   shall   thy   name  be   dear   to   many   a   heart; 

So   shall  the   noblest   truths   by   thee  be   taught, 

The   flower  and  fruit  of  wholesome   human   thought, 

Bless   the   sweet   labors   of  thy   gentle   art. 

The   brightest   stars    are   nearest   to   the    earth, 

And   we    may   track   the   mighty   sun   above, 

Ev'n   by   the    shadow  of  a   slender   flower ; 

Always,    O   Bard,   humility   is   power ; 

And  thou  may'st  draw  from   matters  of  the  hearth 

Truths    wide    as   nations,    and   as   deep   as   love. 


118  SONNETS. 


SONNET. 

MOST   men   know   love   but   as   a  part   of  life ; 
They   hide   it   in   some   corner    of  the   breast, 
Ev'n   from   themselves ;   and   only   when   they   rest 
In   the   brief  pauses   of  that   daily   strife, 
Wherewith   the   world   might   else   be   not   so  rife, 
They   draw  it   forth    (as   one    draws   forth   a   toy 
To   soothe   some   ardent  kiss-exacting   boy) 
And   hold   it   up   to   sister,    child,   or   wife. 
Ah   me !    why   may   not   love   and   life   be   one ! 
Why   walk    we   thus   alone,    when   by  our   side, 
Love,   like   a   visible    God,   might  be    our   guide  ? 
How  would    the   marts   grow  noble !    and   the   street, 
Worn   now   like   dungeon-floors   by   weary   feet, 
Seem  then  a  golden   court-way  of  the   Sun  ! 


SONNETS.  119 


SONNET. 

THEY   dub   thee   idler,   smiling   sneeringly ; 
And   why?     because,   forsooth,   so   many   moons, 
Here   dwelling   voiceless   by    the   voiceful   sea, 
Thou   hast   not   set   thy   thoughts   to   paltry   tunes 
In   song  or   sonnet.     Them   these   golden   noons 
Oppress   not   with   their   beauty ;   they   could   prate, 
Ev'n   though   in   cloud   or   star,   of  human  fate, 
They   saw   and   strove   to   read   the   mystic   runes. 
How   know   they,   these  good   gossips,   what   to   thee 
The   ocean   and   its    wanderers   may   have   brought? 
How  know   they,  in   their   busy   vacancy, 
With   what   high   aim   thy   spirit   may   be   fraught  ? 
Or   that   thou   dost   not   bow   thee   silently 
Before   some   great    unutterable   thought  ? 


120  SONNETS. 


SONNET. 

ARE  these  wild  thoughts,  thus  fettered  in  my  rhymes, 
Indeed,   the   product   of  my   heart   and   brain  ? 
How   strange   that   on   my  ear    the   rhythmic   strain 
Falls   like   faint   memories   of  far-off  times ! 
When   did   I   feel   the    sorrow,   act   the   part 
Which   I   have   striv'n   to    shadow   forth   in   song? 
In   what   dead   century   swept  that   mingled   throng 
Of  mighty   pains   and   pleasures   through   my  heart? 
Not   in   the   yesterdays   of  that   still   life 
Which   I   have   passed   so   free   and   far   from   strife, 
But   somewhere   in   this   weary   world   I   know, 
In   some   strange   land,   beneath   some   orient   clime, 
I   saw   or   shared  a   martyrdom   sublime, 
And   felt   a   deeper   grief  than   any   later  woe. 


SONNETS.  121 


SONNET. 

WHAT  gossamer  lures  thee   now?    What  hope,  what 

name 

Is  on  thy  lips  ?     What  dreams  to  fruit  have  grown  ? 
Thou   who   hast   turned   one   Poet-heart   to   stone, 
Is   thine   yet   burning  with   its  seraph   flame  ? 
Let   me   give   back   a   warning   of  thine   own, 
That,   falling   from   thee   many   moons    ago, 
Sank   on   my   soul   like   the   prophetic   moan 
Of  some   young    Sybil   shadowing   her   own   woe. 
The  words   are  thine,  and   will   not   do   thee   wrong, 
I   only   bind   their   solemn   charge   to   song. 
Thy   tread   is   on    a    quicksand,  —  oh !   be    wise  ! 
Nor,    in   the   passionate    eagerness   of  youth, 
Mistake   thy   bosom-serpent's   glittering   eyes 
For   the   calm   lights   of  Reason   and  of  Truth. 


122  SONNETS. 


SONNET. 

WHICH  are  the  clouds,  and  which  the  mountains  ?  See, 

They   mix   and  melt   together !     Yon   blue   hill 

Looks  fleeting   as   the   vapors    which   distil 

Their   dews   upon   its   summit,   while   the   free 

And   far   off  clouds,   now   solid,   dark,   and   still, 

An   aspect    wear   of  calm   eternity. 

Each    seems   the   other,   as   our   fancies    will, 

The    cloud   a   mount,   the  mount   a   cloud,   and   we 

Gaze  doubtfully.     So   everywhere   on   earth 

This   foothold   where   we   stand,    with   slipping   feet, 

The   unsubstantial   and   substantial   meet, 

And   we   are   fooled   until   made    wise   by   Time. 

Is  not   the   obvious   lesson    something   worth, 

Lady  ?   or   have    I    wov'n   an   idle   rhyme  ? 


SONNETS.  123 


SONNET. 

IF   I   have   graced   no   single    song   of  mine 

With   thy   sweet   name,   they   all   are   full   of  thee; 

Thou   art   my   May,   my    Kate,   my   Madeline; 

But   *  *  *  * !    ah !    that   gentle   name   to   me 

Is    something   far   too   sacred   for   the   throng 

Of  worldly   listeners   round   me.     Yet   ev'n    now 

I   weave   a   chaplet   for   thy   sinless  brow ;  — 

Wilt   thou   not   wear   it?     'Tis   a   passionate    song 

Of  a   deep   poet-life ;    and   on   it  I 

Have    wreaked   heart,   mind,  my   love,   my   hopes   of 

fame, 

Yet   after   all   it   hath   no   nobler   aim 
Than   thy   dear   praise.     Ere   many  moons   pass   by, 
When   the   last   gem   is   set,   the   crown   complete, 
I'll   lay   a   Poet's   tribute   at   thy   feet. 


124  SONNETS. 


SONNET. 

I   THANK   you,   kind   and   best   beloved   friend, 

With   the   same   thanks   one   murmurs   to   a   sister, 

When,   for   some   gentle   favor,   he    hath   kissed   her, 

Less   for   the   gifts   than   for   the   love   you   send, 

Less  for  the  flowers,  than  what   the   flowers  convey ; 

If  I,   indeed,   divine   their   meaning   truly, 

And   not   unto   myself  ascribe,    unduly, 

Things  which  you  neither  meant  nor  wished  to   say. 

Oh!   tell   me,   is   the   hope   then   all   misplaced? 

And   am   I   flattered   by   my   own   affection? 

But   in   your   beauteous   gift,    methought,    I    traced 

Something   above   a   short-lived   predilection, 

And   which,   for   that   I   know   no   dearer   name, 

I   designate   as   love,   without   love's    flame. 


SONNETS.  125 


SONNET. 

SOME   truths   there   be   are   better   left   unsaid  ; 
Much   is   there   that   we   may   not  speak   unblamed; 
On    words,   as   wings,    how   many  joys   have   fled! 
The  jealous   fairies   love   not   to   be   named. 
There   is  an   old-world   tale   of  one   whose   bed 
A   genius   graced,   to   all,    save   him,   unknown, — 
One   day   the    secret   passed   his   lips,  and   sped 
As   secrets   speed,  —  thenceforth   he   slept  alone. 
Too   much,   oh !    far    too    much   is    told   in    books ; 
Too   broad   a   daylight   wraps   us   all   and   each,  — 
Ah!   it   is   well   that,   deeper   than   our   looks, 
Some   secrets   lie   beyond   conjecture's  reach, — 
Ah!   it   is   well   that   in   the   soul   are   nooks 
That   will   not   open   to   the   keys   of  speech. 


126  SONNETS. 


SONNET. 

WRITTEN   ON   A    VERY   SMALL   SHEET   OF   NOTE-PAPER. 

WERE   I   the    Poet-Laureate   of    the    Fairies, 
Who,   in   a   rose-leaf,   finds   too   broad   a   page, 
Or   could   I,    like   your   beautiful   canaries, 
Sing   with   free   heart   and   happy   in   a   cage, 
Perhaps   I   might,    within   this   little    space, 
(As    in    some    Eastern   tale,   by   magic   power, 
A   giant   is   imprisoned   in   a   flower,) 
Have  told   you   something   with  a    Poet's  grace. 
But   I   need   wider   limits,   ampler   scope, 
A   world   of   freedom   for   a   world   of  passion, 
And   even   then    the   glory   of  my   hope 
Would   not   be   uttered   in  its   stateliest   fashion ; 
Yet,   lady,    when   fit   language  shall   have   told   it, 
You'll   find   one   little   heart   enough   to   hold   it. 


SONNETS.  127 


SONNET. 

I    SCARCELY   grieve,   O    Nature!    at   the    lot 

That   pent   my   youth  within    a   city's   bounds, 

And    shut   me  from    thy  sweetest   sights  and  sounds ; 

Perhaps   I   had  not   learned,   if  some   lone    cot 

Had   been    my   birthplace,   what    the    crowded   mart 

Taught   me   amid   its   bustle    and   its    strife, 

Of  the   stern   actualities    of  life. 

There,   too,   O  Nature!   in    the   home   of  Art, 

Thy  power   was   on    me,   and  I   owned   thy   thrall. 

There   is   no   unimpressive   spot   on   earth! 

The   beauty   of  the    stars   is    over   all, 

And   Day   and    Darkness    everywhere   have   birth ; 

The   transient   glory   of  a   cloud   may   call 

Thoughts   of  great   deeds   to   us,    and   lasting   worth. 


128  SONNETS. 


SONNET. 

FATE  !   seek   me   out   some   lake,   far   off  and   lone, 
Shut   in   by   wooded   hills   that   steeply   rise, 
And   beautiful   with   blue   inverted   skies, — 
Where  not   a   breeze   but   comes  with   softened   tone, 
And   if  the   waves   awake,   they   only  moan 
With    a   low,   lulling   music,   like   the   rills 
That   make   their   home   among   those   happy   hills. 
And   let  me   find  —  there   left   by  hands  unknown  — 
A   bark,    with   rifted   sides   and   threadbare    sail, 
Just   strong   enough   to   bear   me   from   the    shore, 
But   not   to   reach   its   tree-girt   harbor   more. 
O   happy,  happy   rest !     O    world   of  wail ! 
How   calmly  I  would  tempt  the   peaceful   deep, 
And    sink    with    smiling    brow    into    the    dreamless 
Sleep. 


SONNETS.  129 


SONNET. 

GRIEF   dies    like  joy;   the   tears    upon   my   cheek 
Will   disappear   like   dew.     Dear    God !   I   know 
Thy   kindly    Providence   hath   made  it   so, 
And   thank   thee   for   the   law.     I   am   too   weak 
To   make    a   friend   of  Sorrow,   or   to   wear, 
With   that   dark  angel   ever   by   my   side, 
(Though   to   thy   heaven   there   be   no   better   guide) 
A   front   of  manly   calm.     Yet,    for   I   hear 
How    woe   hath   cleansed,   how   grief  can   deify, 
So   weak   a   thing   it   seems   that   grief  should    die, 
And   love   and   friendship   with  it,   I    could   pray, 
That   if  it   might  not   gloom   upon  my   brow, 
Nor   weigh   upon   my   arm    as   it   doth   now, 
No   grief  of  mine    should    ever   pass   away. 


130  SONNETS. 


SONNET. 

AT   last   beloved   Nature !     I   have   met 
Thee  face   to   face   upon   thy   breezy   hills, 
And   boldly,    where   thy    inmost   bowers   are   set, 
Gazed   on    thee   naked   in    thy   mountain    rills. 
When   first   I   felt   thy   breath   upon   my   brow, 
Tears   of  strange  ecstasy   gushed   out   like   rain, 
And    with    a   longing,   passionate    as   vain, 
I   strove   to    clasp   thee.     But   I   know   not   how, 
Always   before   me    didst   thou    seem    to    glide ; 
And   often   from   one    sunny   mountain-side, 
Upon   the   next   bright   peak   I   saw   thee   kneel, 
And   heard   thy   voice    upon    the   billowy   blast ; 
But,   climbing,   only  reached   that   shrine    to   feel 
The   shadow   of  a   Presence   which   had  passed. 


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A   LIST    OF   BOOKS 

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